Lofoten is firmly in the Arctic Circle, but thanks to the Gulf Stream, has the largest positive temperature anomaly in the world relative to latitude. Combined with the stunning scenery and low population, it seemed the perfect place to take the bike for a week of exploration.

In retrospect, my research should have involved a little more than staring at pictures and trying to decide which camp sites would get the most impressive sunrises and sunsets. It turns out ‘warm for the Artic Circle’ doesn’t necessarily mean warm. No one mentioned the prevailing wind either – it seems to blow North East and on windier days, progress toward the end of the archipelago can be incredibly tough.

The plan was simple. Fly into Tromsø, build the bike, ride down to Å at the far end of the Archipelago and then ride back to Tromsø covering any roads I’d missed on the way down, giving around 1,400km over 9 days.

DAY 1 – TROMSØ TO BALSFJORD (90km)

My flight arrived at midday, so I’d planned on a short ‘calibration’ ride – a quick 90km to escape the hustle and bustle of Tromsø and get a taste of what lay ahead over the coming days. I didn’t really have high expectations for the ride, assuming it wasn’t long enough to reach the magnificent scenery and would be something of a ‘wasted’ day.

Turns out I needn’t have worried. Within a few miles I’d ticked off my first bridge and tunnel and was struggling to contain my excitement as new peaks, lakes and dramatic coastlines appeared around every corner. If the ‘boring’ day was this good, the rest of the week was going to be pretty incredible!

I was riding in just shorts and a jersey and feeling pretty comfortable until it started to rain shortly before the campsite. Gently at first, but being a cautious type I got the jacket out early and sure enough, the heavens soon opened. Luckily the campsite owner offered a fire and I was able to start the next day with dry (but smokey) kit.

The day started beautifully – the sun was shining and while the night had been chilly, it was pretty bearable. I rode down the road to a Circle K to get breakfast. Food in Norway is expensive (particularly anything imported, meaning all the brand names you recognise), but the better petrol stations have bakeries and quite often burger joints inside and offer fairly good value for money. It’s not glamorous, but it’s still pretty special sitting on a bench behind a petrol station in the shadow of the mountains eating freshly baked goods!

A little further down the road was an incredibly clear lake, reflecting the dramatic and moody skies above and I simply had to stop to grab a picture. I’d gotten a soaking the day before, so wasn’t concerned by the skies – skin’s waterproof after all.

After hugging the coastline for the entire morning, my route began heading inland and upward. I was excited to be heading into the hills and feeling strong, not realising there was 40km of up to come (admittedly most of it not steep) and that I was about to get my first taste of proper weather.

As the climb ticked away, it began gently raining and I put on my waterproof, expecting another benign but sustained soaking. Then the rain started getting harder and colder. Looking around, I realised I was pretty much level with the snow line in the mountains (only around 400m or so!) and was now engulfed in cloud.

Within minutes I was soaked through and absolutely freezing. Unsurprisingly, the Norweigans also seemed to have neglected to build any towns on top of the hill in deepest darkest nowhere and there was absolutely no shelter to be had. The wind and gradient were making progress slow and my spirit was quickly waning. I eventually found a concrete bus shelter, stripped off as much of the wet gear as I could and then put on every item of clothing I had with me.

After half an hour running on the spot and jumping up and down I’d stopped shivering enough that I felt confident getting back on the bike. I’d checked the map and there was a long descent coming up and a town with plenty of shops, so I was pretty keen to get going.

Sure enough, the rain fizzled out by the time I’d dropped down to Bjerkvik. The descent was incredible fun to ride and I suspect is rather pretty when you can see further than 10 feet ahead of you. Bjerkvik itself felt a touch industrial, but was on the coast and a good few degrees warmer than my bus stop had been.

After a good feed, it was back to climbing as I joined the E10 for the first time and ascended back into the clouds and rain. The highlight of the day was supposed to be a rather impressive bridge joining this island to the next. I’d even researched a short detour to get a good angle of it for photos. I’d been chasing squalls all the way up the coast and the weather was quickly closing in, so there’d be no picture and I was very worried looking over the fjord that my campsite was currently being absolutely pissed on.

Luckily the weather was moving faster than I was and the rain had stopped by the time I approached my home for the night. I even got to see a couple of moose hanging out in someone’s garden. Even better, the campsite was completely empty, pan flat and stuck out into the sea, giving an incredible view. Less good – they weren’t serving any food and I’d exhausted my supplies.

I was pretty done in at this point. I wrestled the bathroom key off the camper van that had decided it should be in charge of them, had a long warm shower and wrung out as much of my kit as I could before ramming it down the end of my sleeping bag and passing out cold, wet and hungry.

DAY 3 – HARSTAD TO LEKNES(ish) (199KM)

Thanks to the weather and low visibility, day 2 had taken the crown from day 1 as the ‘boring’ day and I’d woken up feeling pretty low. That is, until I opened the tent and saw the sun shining and took in the ridiculous landscape surrounding me on all sides. Norway being Norway, it didn’t last. Just as I’d taken down the tent outer, the rain started again and all the kit I’d laid out to dry got a fresh soaking.

Breakfast was 10km away at Kongsvik, so I loaded up the bike and trundled off down the road into the rain. Entering Kongsvik, the mountains and weather clashed to create endless rainbows and sudden showers – literally every corner revealed a new rainbow, including a double one over the road. It was pretty stunning and by the time I’d refuelled at the petrol station, I was feeling pretty good about the day. It certainly helped that there was just enough visibility to make out the mountains today…

A few miles down the road I hit Fiskefjorden – my first ‘real’ fjord of the trip. It was very nearly an existential experience… the high mountains surrounding the fjord kept the weather out and created shelter from the wind. I rode around with the biggest grin on my face and quickly forgot about the trials of the previous day.

Of course, all good things come to an end and once out of the Fjord, the headwind reappeared and squalls of rain passed through every few minutes. Fortunately, the views stayed and I just couldn’t stop smiling as the endless views unfolded before me.

I had a bit of a panic when a steep and long climb appeared on the horizon with signs advising to use snow chains, and layered up… so of course ended up sweltering over the next 4-5km, riding past two beautiful lakes and dropping down to the far side of the island.

Approaching Hinnøya, the wind and rain intensified. The mountains were funnelling the wind straight down the road and forward movement stalled. I ended up stopping at Gullesfjordbotn to catch my breath and take in the views (such as they were with the heavy rain and cloud cover). This is an area I intend to return and explore properly one day – it was stunning and I’d love to explore this side of Møysalen and hike up some of the incredibly peaks.

Continuing down the E10, the road rises steadily toward a 6km long tunnel. The wind was roaring down this climb so ferociously I was forced to stand on the pedals, screaming into the wind and barely moving forward. The rain was so heavy I could only look down and I was following the road by looking at where I had been, rather than where I was going. It felt like an eternity, but eventually the road levelled and the tunnel loomed large.

Suddenly the wind and rain stopped. My GPS couldn’t tell speed underground, but looking at the gears, I was pretty sure I was doing at least 40kph. The eerie silence of the tunnel, broken by the roar of car engines and the transition from light to darkness every few feet was incredibly trippy and called to mind a scene from Willy Wonka that used to terrify me as a child:

Leaving the tunnel was like being shot out of a cannon into a distant land. The sky was blue, the wind had died down and the landscape had changed once more. Endless mountains, fjords and picturesque views made the miles fly by. Every turn in the road brought another view that took my breath away and I was buzzing all the way to Laupstad.

At Laupstad, the headwind found me once more. I made slow progress down to Svolvaer and the peaks around me were lost into cloud. At Svolvaer, I hid in a petrol station for an hour to refuel and prepare for the final push down to Leknes. I ended up having a long chat with a local about my plans and his wife assured me I was completely insane. She might have had a point.

All too soon, it was time to brave the headwind and head toward Grimsøya, where there was an incredible bridge I was looking forward to crossing, despite the weather. Admittedly that excitement turned to nerves when it came into view and I felt the 17m/s winds side on for the first time and saw just how high and long the bridge was.

At first it was fine, I was leaning heavily to my left (into the wind), traffic was light and I felt in control. Then I reached the middle of the bridge and nearly got blown straight over the guard rail! I spent the rest of the bridge steering hard to the left and pushing hard into the wind just to stay straight, and coming off the bridge straight into the headwind, the gusts were strong enough to bring me to a complete standstill when the blew through every minute or two.

Luckily Kaljord wasn’t far and I set up my tent alongside a small lake, watched the sunset, ate far too many sweets and passed out, ready for an early start the following morning.

DAY FOUR – LEKNES TO UTTAKLEIV BEACH VIA Å (155km)

I had, rather foolishly, completely ignored elevation profiles whilst planning my route, so day four began with an unexpected and unwelcome climb for the first couple of km. The weather was ‘close’ and rain kept rolling through, but largely the morning was quite pleasant – not too cold, dry enough and the headwind was bearable.

Heading down the archipelago, the mountains just got more and more beautiful, with incredible shapes piercing the clouds and it was impossible not to keep stopping to take pictures every few minutes when the clouds shifted or a new view hove into sight.

Around Flakstad, the now customary soaking was delivered as it rained just long enough to thoroughly soak all of my kit for the day ahead. It was hard to care though, following roads twisting around the base of incredible mountains and hugging beautiful coastlines.

From Moskenes onward I was pretty much taking pictures constantly, recognising peaks from my research before the trip and spotting new details you just can’t find in the pictures. I had planned on doing some hiking around here, but it was just too wet and grim to be safe – not to mention I hadn’t realised quite how intense Norweigan hikes are (steep, poorly marked… terrific fun though!) and there simply wasn’t enough time in my ride schedule to fit it in. I’ll just have to come back to do them!

Å itself was a bit of a let down and after days of rain, being cold and covering big miles, my mood had taken quite a hit. I was quite down in the dumps and just didn’t make the most of being there. I got myself fed and started heading back up the islands.

Next on the list was Nusfjord. The town itself is very pretty, but the main attraction was going to be the ‘wall’ on the road in. An imposing mountain range that had captured my imagination when I spotted it on Streetview.

The entire road into Nusfjord is sheltered and a delight to ride – to my mind, it’s an absolute ‘must do’. It actually came at the expense of attempting to reach Kvalvika Beach (the hike there would simply have taken too long anyway). The town is small, but incredibly picturesque and it’s easy to while away an hour or two taking in the sights and exploring.

After Nusfjord, all that was left was scoping out beaches to camp on. I was pretty convinced it would be Haukland, but the sunset was hidden behind the headland and Uttakleiv got the final vote. On the road in, there was a beautifully still lake and the evening sun created one of the most incredible views I’ve ever seen:

It’s perfectly set out for camping (you have to pay, after all) with flat pitches and plenty of benches and fire pits dotted around. There’s a lovely walk around the headland to Haukland beach and as my first night on the North of the islands, this was my first experience with quite how long a sunset lasts in northern Norway at the end of August. I left the tent door open until it got too cold and watched the colours on the horizon, gently worrying about the clouds gathering by the mountains surrounding the beach.

DAY FIVE – UTTAKLEIV BEACH TO EGGUM BEACH (155km)

Waking up on the beach was magical – the day was still, the sun was shining and the waves were gently lapping against the shore. Two locals wandered past in bikinis and I knew it was finally going to be a warm day. The route for the day was pretty much a lap of the island, so hopefully no straying into surprise weather systems.

The day started with a trip down to Balstad, which in hindsight I wouldn’t bother with again. It was a pretty enough town, but I’d added the loop purely to bump up the miles for the day and the time it took for this ride would probably have been better spent on the beach in the evening. On the plus side, the return leg coincided with a school outing on bicycles – a never ending stream of kids on bikes being shepherded down the road by adults. It reminded me of when I briefly worked in Amsterdam and was wonderful to see.

Next on the agenda was climbing the other side of the mountain that had surprised me two mornings ago. I’d descended in rain, with limited visibility and had no idea quite how special this was going to be. It’s one of only a couple of switchbacks in Lofoten and on a clear day like today, the view was breathtaking. I was riding up whilst looking back over my shoulder and just had to stop above the switchback to take a panorama of the view and drink it in.

I continued retracing the 815, failing to recognise anything I’d ridden past a few days ago and marvelling at the sights. You could see straight across the sea to the adjoining islands and none of the towering peaks surrounding the road were lost to cloud. It felt like I was seeing this part of the island for the first time and is a strong argument in favour of riding both down and back up the peninsula – with such changeable weather, having two chances to hit as many locations as possible seems pretty sensible and you can mix and match the E10 and smaller roads to build in enough variation to keep it interesting.

At the end of the island, I turned back, this time taking the E10 along the North coast. It was beautifully scenic, but definitely busier than the 815. It was also quite hard going, whereas the 815 hugged the coast and was quite flat, the E10 followed a rolling route through the foothills, occasionally climbing quite steeply.

After a quick stop at the Viking museum (shut, boo!), I headed for Unstad – the ‘Arctic Surfing Beach’. Although the beach was supposed to be the highlight, it was actually the road leading to it that took my breath away. After a brief stop to give a local one of my spare tubes and pump his tyre back up, I followed the winding road past lakes, the stunning Tangstad beach and a magnificent waterfall, before it climbed sharply, passed through an unlit tunnel and dropped down toward the beach.

The beach itself was quiet – it was pretty late and the water was fairly still, so everyone had headed home for the night. I got a touch of beach fatigue, stayed long enough to take a photo and then decided to push on to my home for the night – Eggum beach.

Eggum was ridiculously quiet and I got nervous that there might have been bad weather forecast or something I’d missed keeping other campers away (I’m now pretty sure it was just because it was the end of the season). I found a quiet and flat spot next to a bench, set up the tent and went for an explore. There’s a cafe and toilet block built into the base of an old WWII radar tower, but the real fun is to be found heading out the other way and following the path down the coast. Perhaps do this with a little more daylight remaining than I did – the path gets quite technical and I had to turn back before it got dangerous in the dark.

DAY SIX – EGGUM BEACH TO SVOLVAER (and some backtracking 124km)

This day did not go to plan. It started very windy and there was a deadline to get to the last food stop of the day and a ferry onto the next island… which was missed and resulted in a retracing of steps back to Svolvaer to take advantage of a cheap hotel.

Hitting the road up through Svolvaer in bright, but windy weather meant I finally got to spot the ‘goat’ from the road, but quite honestly, very little else of note happened today.

That said, the unplanned hotel stay was a god send. After five days of wearing the same kit and getting quiet smelly through a combination of rain, sweat, mud and god knows what else, a chance to wash out all the kit and, importantly, also get it bone dry on a radiator really raised my morale.

It’s strange how the constant ups and downs of beautiful sights, followed by being absolutely soaked and frozen can damage your mood. It happens slowly and imperceptibly, but constantly going to sleep wet and cold and waking up wet and cold had definitely been draining me and a night in a hotel was the perfect opportunity to reset and put my head back on straight for the last few days of my journey.

DAY SEVEN – SVOLVAER – SORTLAND (139km)

Finally, some new terrain to explore! Albeit, with a huge serving of Arctic weather.

The ferry I needed to catch today only sailed twice per day and the first sailing I’d be able to make would be 5.30, so there was no rush to leave the hotel. I waited for the rain to ease – having just got my kit dry, I really didn’t want to soak it through again just yet!

By around 10.30, there was a break in the weather and I started heading back up the coast toward Hanoy, where I’d catch the ferry. On my fourth journey along the E10 to Vestpollen, I finally stopped at a viewpoint I’d been looking forward to. I’d hoped there’d be good weather at least once, but it wasn’t to be and the only picture I got felt pretty appropriate for my experience of Norway thus far:

By the time I’d reached Laukvik, it was pissing down once more. Proper ‘head down and get it over with’ weather. You could tell that the coastal road toward the ferry was beautiful, but it was just too miserable to enjoy and most of the time you could only see a few feet ahead. The fjord between Sanden and Stronstad added the excitement of a killer headwind followed by no tailwind. To make matters worse, I got to the ferry several hours early, expecting there to be somewhere warm to wait.

There was a bench. In the open. By the water. I put on all my gear and hunkered down, eventually spotting a group of hikers, who huddled in a corner and another cyclist who introduced himself before doing star jumps and running on the spot.

I toyed with hopping back on the bike and cycling the long way round through Moysalen… but I remembered the brutal winds a few days ago heading the other direction and the heavy, freezing rain and decided to stick with the ferry. In retrospect, I think I’d have gone with Moysalen – the road from Hennes to Sortland is uninspiring and quite industrial. I’m sure in better weather it’s much nicer, but I’m also sure the E10 past Gullesfjordbotn is far more beautiful.

The run into Sortland took an age as I kept ducking under cover when the bigger squalls blew in from the sea. At times, the world would turn grey and the air just became wet in every direction. Somehow, I largely kept dry and dodged the bigger storms, finally making it to Sortland and emptying the Circle K of supplies.

DAY EIGHT – SORTLAND – STAVE (90km)

I was determined that this would be the day I finally did a hike. The weather was looking good and there was a hike at Stave that I was desperate to do. I cut the day’s ride short and made sure there was a full afternoon and evening to go exploring.

Andoya itself was pretty uninspiring and the campsite at Stave was nowhere near as good as the pictures had looked (not to mention the unfriendly staff). If you’re not going to hike here, I’d keep rolling and camp somewhere nicer!

The hike I had in mind was at the far end of Stave and would bring me to the highest point around, with a stunning view of a hidden beach and the surrounding landscape. I’d assumed it would be a few hours of quite strenuous walking, but nothing outrageous… holy crap, I was wrong.

At the base of what looked like a large rock fall was a sign – pointing right, straight into the boulder field was a sign for the peak I was heading for. Heading left was a nice coastal path (that according to my map, would also reach the peak above the beach). I chose left.

The path very quickly became technical and hard to follow. Where it passed over rocks, it was impossible to discern direction and I ended up pretty much just scrabbling in the general direction I thought it was heading. Then another boulder field came into view. With people slowly making their way up it. “You have GOT to be kidding me!”. Sure enough, there was a sign at the base of the boulder field, pointing straight up.

Surprisingly, as you got closer to the boulders, it became possible to just about make out an established path. Plenty of scrambling followed, but it was fairly straightforward and my confidence started growing. At the top, I met two locals coming down from what looked like a sheer wall. Both easily in their 60s, whistling and chatting away. They recommended popping up where they’d come from before heading off to the beach and I gladly complied, stopping at the summit for a beer.

The path down to the beach was much simpler, but finding the route off the beach and up the mountain was proving difficult. Eventually I spotted the faintest of scars on the side of the mountain, winding up an impossibly steep path between a boulder field and a waterfall. According to my Garmin, the ascent averaged about 44%. In places it was extremely technical and I slipped badly at one point, nearly tumbling off the face of this insane wall. Some of the stones were loose, so I’d grabbed a thick plant for support… only to find that it wasn’t very firmly attached itself. I fell a couple of meters before managing to arrest my fall and took the rest of the climb much more steadily.

Eventually the gradient eased, becoming a steep walk along the ridge and up to the summit above the beach. Once again the path faded in and out of existence and I ended up just making a beeline for the summit. Nearer the top it became clear there was a well trodden path heading in the other direction, but seemingly few people bothered with the route I’d chosen.

It was worth it though… the views were incredible and eating my dinner on a remote peak, watching the sun set was an experience that will stay with me forever.

Heading back down, I managed to find the path that had been signposted from Stave. It was still insane, but much easier and safer than the route I’d taken out. It took a further 2 hours or so to make the trip down before showering, setting up the tent and passing out.

DAY NINE – STAVE – TROMSØ (190km)

I had originally planned to do this over two days, but was worrying about being able to find packing supplies in Tromsø on Sunday (when everything is shut), so decided to give it one big push and get to Tromsø early.

As it was the end of the season, there were very limited ferries from Andenes to Gryllefjord, so it was an early start and a speedy ride up the remainder of Andoya’s coastline (including passing the Norwegian Space Agency!).

After a long ferry ride, I arrived in Senja and immediately understood why it’s referred to as ‘little Lofoten’. Senja might be relatively small, but it packs one hell of a punch. The weather had also decided to play ball again for the day, making for a perfect end to my Norwegian adventure.

With a lot of ground to cover and another ferry to catch before the end of the day, there wasn’t much time for tourism and I’ll never know what I missed out on at the Troll Park! I made an exception for the viewing platform at Bergsbotn, however, and couldn’t help lookign ridiculously smug stood in front of such an incredible view.

I made good time to Botnham, arriving a few minutes before the ferry and then proceeded to make my way back to Tromsø from Brensholmen. After my journey out from Tromsø, I was expecting the landscape to gently tail off, but the route back was stunning. I don’t regret my route further inland on the first day, but my advice would definitely be to head from Tromsø directly to Senja – it’s rather stunning!

DAY TEN – HOME!

A brief search of Tromsø revealed no good packing materials, so I bought some clingfilm and prepared to simply wrap the bike and send it through with no protection. I’d checked the airport on the way to Tromsø the night before in case there were any boxes (no joy), so was surprised to find one today when I arrived. Success! There were plenty of people arriving and leaving on/with bikes, so I’d definitely suggest not panicking and wrapping your bike poorly before you’ve checked the airport the day of your flight.

ADVICE AND ASSORTED MUSINGS

Take suitable clothes for ALL weather

Watch out for the prevailing wind

If you want to hike, ride half a day or even take a day off to make time for it

Keep coins for showers at campsites

Be creative with your route – the E10 is fine, but some of the smaller roads are incredible

Bring lights for the tunnels

99% of drivers are incredible and give loads of room, watch out for the 1% who drive like total lunatics

Stop at the roadside loos (particularly the big concrete one by the sea)… trust me

Eat local brands and avoid eating out if you want to keep costs down

If you’re camping, bring a warm sleeping bag!

Don’t get obsessed with your route/plan. Go with the weather and take it day by day

Camping is a LOT cheaper than hotels, but there are actually a lot of reasonably priced options if you need an easy night (or at least there were when I was there, I guess peak season could be different). Wild camping is, of course, free, but more of an effort and unlikely to have a convenient shower nearby.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/09/17/bikepacking-norway/feed/4rrembrbrnImage result for svolvaer goatMille Pennineshttps://brbrn.com/2018/07/17/mille-pennines/
https://brbrn.com/2018/07/17/mille-pennines/#respondTue, 17 Jul 2018 15:36:39 +0000http://brbrn.com/?p=1586My DNF at the TransAtlantic Way has been weighing heavily on my mind, so a few weeks ago I decided to find a challenge with comparable distance and climbing to the section of TAW that I missed. As luck would have it, Mille Pennines had four drop out spaces available and offered around 12,000m of climbing over 1,000km – including ascents of some real buggers, like Hardknott, Wrynose and Rosedale Chimney.

My chest still hasn’t entirely recovered and my right hand suffers occasional tingling and numbness, but I figured the base fitness would still be there and this was an audax, with a central base and three distinct days of 270-350km of riding. There would be no racing, no riding through the night, just shed loads of scenery and hopefully some closure from some seriously hard-earned miles.

The event began at 11am on Friday, so I decided to catch a train up first thing and avoid having to pay for a hotel. Virgin did their absolute best to scupper this plan by telling me there were no bike spaces available unless I upgraded to the £155 train. I figured it was still cheaper than a train AND a hotel and the hour and twenty minutes between arriving in Preston and the ride starting in Bispham should be just enough time if I got a shift on.

Arriving in Bispham, I just about had time to sign in and sort myself out, so didn’t bump into (or look for) anyone that’d mentioned on Twitter or Instagram that they would be riding. Once the ride started I also accidentally found myself off the front until the first control. It’s one of the very few flat sectors and I was probably still pretty amped from racing across from the train station.

The next group wasn’t far behind and Paul Alderson introduced himself, followed by one or two others that recognised my bike or face. I always love putting a face to names I’ve seen on start lists or followed as a dot, but I’m also awful with names and find myself awkwardly scrabbling around the corners of my brain trying to work out who people are.

I forced myself to take my time at the control, instead of just jumping straight back on the bike and riding off with my pockets full of biscuits. When I did eventually set off, I’d picked up some company and ticked off a very pleasant few miles into the Lakes, chatting away and riding pretty steady.

It was absolutely sweltering and despite topping up my bottles not long ago, I was already running dry. I’ve ridden in the lakes frequently enough to know there’s not much between Ambleside and Seascale, so suggested we pull into the petrol station just before Ambleside to top up. Part of me was dreading the added weight of full bottles up Wrynose and Hardknott, but there was no getting around it and it’s probably better to be sweltering than facing the other extremes of weather you normally get in the Lakes.

We hit the lead into Wrynose and my companion started asking about how difficult the climb actually was. I explained that we weren’t on it yet and that he’d know when we got there. That it kicks and then just never really eases off, with a nasty sting in the tail.

We held pace nicely until the cattle grid at the base of Wrynose where the road kicks up. I was riding 34×34 and thought that would be plenty… it really wasn’t. I’d opted not to use a drop bag and had a lot of weight on the bike, plus my fatigue from TAW… to be honest, I probably could have made it up, but wrestling the bike, watching my companion speed off with extra gears and seeing countless people already walking made it all too easy to dismount.

I stopped midway up the climb to enjoy the view and remind myself that this weekend was all about taking it easy and enjoying the ride, not racing. Rather than jump back on the bike after enjoying the view, I wheeled the bike up and resolved to ride Hardknott instead – one outta two ain’t bad….

Hardknott was conquered with little drama – I berated myself for being soft and walking Wrynose, but I suspect the ‘rest’ of walking up (and taking in the view for a good 5 minutes) probably left me fresh for Hardknott, making it feel much easier. I’d noticed on the steeper sections that pulling up on my pedals was causing my shoes to move around quite a lot in the cleats, but figured it was nothing…

The ride into Seascale was a lonely, but uneventful affair. Despite walking, I was still amongst the front runners for the time being and there was a small group forming by the benches opposite the Co Op. Once again, I took my time over the stop, being as lazy as possible and making sure to take in the sights and sounds, instead of dashing off ahead of the first riders to leave.

When I did finally leave, I was beeped and sworn at for having the temerity to ride in the road when there was a ‘cycle path’ (shared use pavement) available for my use. It’d been such a peaceful and pleasant ride to this point that it affected me much more than it should have and my mood took a bit of a hit. I was already struggling a little with balancing my desire to go slow with my fear of falling behind, embarrassed about walking Wrynose, and absolutely sweltering. I ended up stopping a few times and had to have quite stern words with myself to stop from going in hunt of a train station.

Luckily I was soon overtaken by some SWRC lads, who I was able to tag onto the back of and get some much needed companionship and conversation. The miles started ticking down easily again and by the time we hit Winlatter, the climb felt easy and I was thoroughly enjoying riding without rushing and just enjoying the experience.

Admittedly, it didn’t last all that long and I ended up dropping the guys on the run down to the main control for the weekend. It’s a fast A road and I just sort of slipped off the front… it wasn’t intentional, promise! One final bugger of a climb and it was time for a shower, some food and an early night.

Despite the rough patch, I was amongst the earlier finishers for the first day and managed to get a good 4 hours or so, waking up at a pretty sociable 5am, with a view to getting on the road for 6.

I’m always pretty weak first thing in the morning, so I trundled along gently and got overtaken by the occasional rider (and to be fair, caught a few myself). Setting off into the Dales and North Pennines was absolutely stunning. The sky was clear, the sun was warm and the views were epic. The climbs, while never ending, were also much gentler than the Lakes and progress was steady and relatively easy.

I was, however, beginning to struggle with my shoes jumping out of my cleats. It had begun the night before and gotten steadily worse. Andy, the organiser, looked up some bike shops for me, but I would be passing through everywhere just a little too early for them to be of use. As long as I kept the pressure constant, my feet largely stayed where they should, so I decided just to get my head down and hope I saw a bike shop at some point.

Unfortunately there was nothing and we were already entering Kielder, where there would definitely be nothing for a very long time. Compared to the rest of the ride, Kielder’s pretty flat, but it’s also very exposed and the heat was pretty oppressive. I found myself praying for downhills just for the added breeze and decided to keep pushing on to Lockerbie rather than hanging around.

Heading through Newcastleton I remembered that the local Co Op had a little stand of bike bits last time I was there, so popped in on the off chance they might have some cleats… they did! SPD-SL cleats… which after much Googling turned out not to be compatible with Look. So close, yet so far!

Luckily, the climb out of Newcastleton is one of my favourites and no amount of accidentally kneeing my handlebars was going to ruin it for me. It’s a beautiful climb that starts pretty steep, but quickly eases off and then teases you with about 5 or 6 false summits. Once you’ve reached the top, you quickly realise there’s another big climb coming as you dive down into a valley and have to climb back out and over. For a big unit like me, long gradual climbs like this are so much better than the 30% bastards we’d be facing the following day.

Once finally in Lockerbie, I pulled up outside a shop to hear a local telling someone to ‘get tae fuck’. Welcome to Scotland, eh? I stuffed my face with donuts and other junk food, then jumped back on the bike hoping the tailwind I’d been expecting all day would materialise.

Up to this point, I think my average speed had been about 22 kph… bombing back down to Sedbergh, I finished the day on nearly 24! It was definitely a quick section and a really good way to finish off such a long day. I was home earlier than expected and had time for a really luxurious shower, several helpings of dinner and another nice early night.

When I woke up the following morning, my right knee was giving me bother. My right knee never hurts, it’s always the left. Having to keep my feet lined up with the pedals and having a ridiculous amount of float (i.e. zero clipping in at all to hold my feet steady) had clearly done some damage.

I had a wobble, told Andy I was a DNF and went back to bed to sulk. 30 minutes later, bored out of my mind, I sheepishly told Andy I wasn’t going to DNF after all, but would ride to Richmond or Yarm and wait for a bike shop to open. It was 7am, I had plenty of time and the bike shops were pretty much down hill from here.

I eventually rolled out dead last, but still early for getting to the bike shops that would open one hour after I hit their respective towns.

All started well enough – some gentle climbing toward Hawes, some lovely scenery and nice easy descents. Only my knee was pretty quickly deteriorating and got to the point where I had to keep stopping pedalling to manage the pain, but then starting again felt like being stabbed behind the kneecap. I kept consoling myself with the fact that it would be down hill to Richmond and I could just keep gently rolling until I hit a bike shop.

Only, it’s not all down hill to Richmond. There’s a bastard steep hill first and Richmond itself is perched precariously on the side of a sheer cliff face (at least, it certainly felt that way at the time).

On the first climb, I spotted a rider and an up-turned bike, so took the opportunity to stop and rest my knee before attempting the remainder. He’d had a nightmare – dropped something into his rear mech, tore it to shreds and knackered the bike. I mentioned the bike shop in Richmond and offered my spare brake pads and various other bits, but his ride was done. So tempting to join him in bailing out to the nearest pub!

I got back on the bike and fought against the gradient for what felt like hours. It wasn’t helped by the halo of flies buzzing around my head. I wasn’t moving fast enough to lose the buggers and something vicious had bitten my hand earlier, so I was waving about trying to get rid of them whilst also trying to keep my feet on the pedals and stamping on the bailout gear.

In Richmond, it was clear I was going to be too early for the bike shop, so I stopped at Costa and grabbed some hot food. I had convinced myself the shop opened at 10, so set off shortly after to hopefully get some cleats. Only, after climbing for another age, the shop was still shut and wouldn’t open for another 40 minutes. I wasn’t about to sit around for 40 minutes on a dreary industrial estate, so I figured I’d cross my fingers and roll into Yarm.

By the time I got to Yarm it was still 30 minutes until the shop opened, but it was the last option before things started getting hilly, so I sat down outside and killed time, gently starting to worry about how much mileage was left to cover and how much of the day had already passed.

The shop opened a little before 12, but by the time the owner had hunted for Look cleats (none in stock) and then SPD-SL pedals (hidden somewhere obscure) I’d already lost 30 minutes. It was nearer 1 by the time I was back on the road, but I did at least have new cleats (and, unexpectedly, new pedals!).

It was presumably a total placebo, but instantly my knee felt better (and I had taken some paracetamol…) and I was so full of the joys of summer that I actually took a detour in Stokesley just to grab a quick selfie outside of a client’s HQ to send to the account team back in London.

I started reeling in the occasional rider and by the time I hit the North York Moors, I was feeling really good. The 20-25% signs and brutal climbs felt easy – being able to pedal properly was clearly paying off! It was far too hot, but I was having the time of my life, hammering up the climbs and drinking in the views.

Even the run into Robin Hood’s Bay (a busy A road where I was close passed endlessly) couldn’t take the shine off my mood and I arrived at the control just as a SWRC lads and Jack were getting ready to leave. I figured I’d have a proper break, enjoy some fish and chips (I’d been daydreaming about them all morning) and try to chase them down in the afternoon.

I don’t think I’d taken into account just quite how unforgiving the next section was and it didn’t feel like long before I’d caught back up. Coming out of Robin Hood’s Bay, there’s a 25% climb that just goes on and on… and then an impossibly steep descent, followed by another wall and more descents. One ascent warned of 30% sections and the road surface was terrible. I just about wrestled my bike to the top, but was seeing stars and absolutely drenched in sweat.

Chatting to the SWRC lads, one seemed convinced we’d already done Rosedale Chimney – surely nothing could be steeper than the climb we’d just done? I wasn’t so certain, but held onto the hope that he might be right.

It all went out the window when Rosedale Chimney came into view though. I remember thinking it didn’t look too intimidating from a distance and by the time I’d hit the bottom I was gaining in confidence. Sure, it was steep, but it was totally bearable and quiet enough I could take a wide line at the hairpins and flatten them out a little. But then it straightens out… and gets steeper… and steeper… then my bars started making ominous cracking sounds… ‘sod this for a game of soldiers’. I jumped off and walked the next hundred or so metres, before jumping back on and riding off as if nothing had happened.

From there it was a much easier run back in to Ripon, albeit with some leg-testing lumps en-route. I caught a couple of riders on the road and then a big group at the petrol station in Ripon. The sun was already very low in the sky and I was still feeling good, so I grabbed some food and jumped straight back on the bike. I sort of expected to get caught on the run back to Sedbergh and be able to sit in with a nice group, but I never saw them again.

As it started getting dark, the local bugs showed a preference for hanging out over the roads and I spent a pretty miserable hour fighting my way through clouds of tiny winged things and trying desperately not to get them in my eyes or mouth.

The climb back up to Hawes should have been pretty enjoyable, but in the dark it was full of full beams, weird noises and rapidly dropping temperatures and I made very slow time. Even when the road headed back down, I didn’t find the speed boost I was expecting. There was a gale blowing up the hill and it felt like it took forever for Sedbergh to appear. I knew I had a very short day ahead of me and could have a lie in, but I was getting tired and grumpy and just wanted to be in bed.

I think I finally arrived around 1-2am, ate a lot of food and promptly threw myself in bed. I figured someone else’s alarm (or the organisers packing up) would wake me in the morning. 80km before 2pm shouldn’t need too many hours…

The next morning I rolled out near the rear of the field and made a point of stopping regularly to enjoy ice creams, cakes and soft drinks. I don’t think I really wanted the ride to be over. I was still feeling pretty fresh – long sleeps and being off the bike for so many hours meant my contact points were in good condition and I felt like I could have kept going for a few more big days without too much bother.

I settled instead for riding back to Preston instead of catching the train. A symbolic victory of sorts.

It’s a shame the event won’t run again for at least a couple of years. I can see how, in bad weather (typical northern weather), it has earned a reputation for being brutal… heck, the heat made it brutal in its own ways, but the climbs, the views and the way the ride is set out so you can get a good kip every night makes it much more enjoyable than just jumping on a bike and slogging it out for 40-70 hours straight.

Still haven’t quite made up my mind on the balance between racing and touring though… I loved riding without pressure, but looking back know I could have been quite quick. I think there might be an ultra race or two left in me…

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/07/17/mille-pennines/feed/02018-07-07 21.02.52brbrn2018-07-08 05.43.58.jpgTransAtlantic Wayhttps://brbrn.com/2018/07/04/transatlantic-way/
https://brbrn.com/2018/07/04/transatlantic-way/#respondWed, 04 Jul 2018 11:09:52 +0000http://brbrn.com/?p=1550I’ve been holding off writing this up as I still haven’t gotten over the disappointment of scratching. The TAW was my main target for the year, something I’d trained extremely hard for and my first chance to measure myself against some of the giants of the ultracycling world.

Everything was going perfectly right up until two days before the race. I woke up with a sore throat, a headache and some aching in my joints and dread set in – having avoided injury, London’s drivers and commuting mishaps, I was going to be taken out by a sodding cold… in summer. I panic bought cold and flu medicine and stepped away from the bike, hoping two days’ rest would see me fit to ride.

The next morning I flew out to Ireland. I felt like death and my girlfriend is pretty much wholly responsible for actually getting me on the plane and keeping me motivated and confident (well as confident as can be for a man with man flu). Once in Dublin and fully briefed, I built up the bike and went for a quick spin… my legs barely worked, my chest was a wreck and I had a blinding headache. Perhaps I shouldn’t start tomorrow after all? I climbed into bed while the sun was still high in the sky and passed out until my alarm woke me up in a pool of sweat the following morning.

I felt awful, but the adrenaline was hitting hard and Beechams seemed to be holding off the worst of my symptoms. I decided I’d ride and just see what happened – my intention was not to race, to take it steady and to just be happy with whatever I was able to do.

I got to the start line early, found a track pump and fixed an issue with my rear mech. Eventually Adrian called for the first wave of starters and I said my goodbyes, grabbed the bike and started wheeling it toward group 1… shit… my rear tyre was completely flat. No puncture, no issue with the valve… just a completely flat tyre. No sign of the track pump… no time to mess about… I got just enough air into it to feel confident riding and headed for the start… then jumped back off and carried on pumping while we were being briefed, much to the amusement of the crowd and circling photographers.

Eventually, we were off. Our wave quickly whittled down to just five riders and I decided to settle in… Bjorn was there and I recognised a couple of the other riders, so this was probably a good place to be.

Only, the pace started feeling pretty glacial. I was pedalling squares, but putting out very little power and a couple of the riders in the group were using their aerobars while trying to hold a wheel. I waited for a straight section of road and decided to ping off the front and settle into a more comfortable tempo.

My usual navigation view on my Elemnt doesn’t show speed, so I didn’t realise at the time, but I was comfortably sitting at 25mph and accidentally opened quite a gap, despite getting stuck at several long lights for construction. It wasn’t until an hour or so later when I tried to check the tracker and tweeted to see if anyone could let me know what the field looks like that I realised I was in the lead!

A bit of support from my followers and a huge kick of confidence from leading the race without having really tried to race saw my plan to ‘take it as it comes’ extinguished. I was going to get to CP1 first – that would be a small victory and enough to make me feel like I’d done something to animate the race… it’d be a nice birthday present to myself too!

The first hundred km or so was pretty flat, so I easily held the lead and continued churning out the miles at pace. It wasn’t until Northern Ireland that the terrain became bumpy and I had to work a bit harder to stay ahead, ceding some time to Bjorn and Berndt. Bjorn and I took a pretty lumpy ‘scenic’ route and Berndt found a flatter route along a river. I was pretty convinced his would work out faster, but fortunately it didn’t seem to give him too much of an advantage.

After a bloody steep climb and quick descent, I hit CP1 safely in first place, had a quick chat with the team and rolled off to find a petrol station, grab some dinner and re-assess my race plan. It was definitely time to slow down… but how much?

The Beechams was holding the worst of my symptoms at bay. I’d been coughing a bit during the day, but no headache… just some aching in my joints and the inability to pedal smoothly (which didn’t seem to be slowing me down too much!). I saw Bjorn roll past as I was finishing my sandwich and figured I’d hop back on and try to stay in the top three for a while.

At some point, Bjorn must have also stopped for food or a drink as I ended up back in pole position without passing him anywhere on the road. The route started getting a little lumpier and I was definitely slowing down, but I couldn’t see him anywhere when I looked over my shoulder on the longer straights, so I kept the pressure on and worked to maintain the lead…. until the route suddenly swung left and the road shot skyward.

What a shock to the system. There’d been some climbing in the day, but I don’t think I left the big ring at all… this first climb saw me dropping straight into the granny ring and my poor aching joints screamed in response. I had a quick look at the tracker, saw Bjorn was right on my tail and decided to stop at the first easing of the gradient so he could pass and I could give him a cheer.

Only Bjorn didn’t seem too keen on that plan! He slowed to check I was OK and seemed surprised when I shouted ‘allez, allez, allez’ in response. I gave him long enough to get out of sight and jumped back on the bike – pressure off, determined to be sensible… at which point I saw Bjorn off his bike at the top of the climb. Bugger. I was back in first place!

Shortly after, Bjorn caught back up and we rolled along having a chat (while I gently tried to encourage him to hurry up and take the lead so I could give in to my cold!). Eventually he rolled off down the road and the evening settled in. We saw each other twice more, once when he briefly stopped for water and again at Malin Head where the route overlaps, but the pressure was off and I stopped for about 30 minutes at the last open village shop and again for what felt like nearly an hour at Malin Head, enjoying the sunset.

As night fell, my regular stops saw some of the field beginning to close the gap and Bjorn and Berndt pushing out the lead. I was now teetering in a weird no man’s land – ahead of the field, but out of touch with the leaders. In response, I floundered a bit – riding easy and waiting for something to happen.

The first thing that happened was an oppressive shadow appeared on the horizon, with car headlights occasionally appearing near the top. I knew Manmore Gap was coming, but I’d made a point of not researching the bigger climbs and I couldn’t make out much in the dark. I’m convinced this was a good thing. I hit the base of the climb pretty gently, sitting and spinning out the granny ring. Only the granny ring quickly wasn’t enough and I had to stand and start stamping and pulling on the pedals.

And the climb just kept going. Every time I felt my legs would give out, the gradient eased just enough to allow me to recover and by the top, I was so determined not to put a foot down that I ended up weaving across the road to flatten out the gradient as much as possible.

Reaching the top was a huge relief. My sick body was coping with the climbs, so maybe I’d be able to finish this ride after all. There are only four of these bad boys in the KOM challenge – how bad can the route be?

On the descent, a car appeared behind me, gave me an encouraging nod when I looked over my shoulder and turned his high beams on. Amazing. The descent is dead straight and with the driver behind lighting the way, I got in the drops and flew down. Sadly, it was marred by the next driver I encountered refusing to drop his high beams (driving toward me) and driving me off the road. luckily I managed to keep the bike upright, despite not being able to see a thing and got my foot down before any harm was done.

Riding on through the night, the Apidura car pulled alongside and asked if they could take a few shots. Everyone knows media car attention is an immediate +100 watts and he stayed with me for ages, following me down a long, straight, rolling road where I was sat on the extensions between 25-30mph and getting out of the saddle on the slight inclines… vanity, thy name is Chris.

The down side of this attention was that I also neglected to stop at the last open shop I would pass until about 11am the following morning… and my food and water supplies were already low.

By early morning, I was slowing considerably and Gavin Dempster was bearing down on me. I was pretty keen to hold onto third, but also pragmatic about the fact that if I got caught, it didn’t really matter and I’d got CP1 in the bag already.

I actually sat down at the base of the Glenveagh gravel section and waited for him, having seen his dot right on top of mine just before the turn. He never showed though and the incessant mozzies saw me moving on pretty quickly!

I spent most of the morning desperately searching for taps. The previous sector was pretty barren and the only cemetery I’d passed that morning had high fences and a locked gate. It was about 9am before I finally found a petrol station with an outdoor tap and managed to refill my bottles… with water I’m not entirely convinced was potable.

The day blurs in my memory – it got increasingly hot as the day continued and I spent much of my time looking at the tracker to see how close GD was and trying to do the bear minimum to maintain my lead. Throughout the day, he came very close to catching me at several points, but always spent long enough stopped in the next town that I was able to push the lead back out.

The first climb of the day was a beautiful, but steep, road out of a valley. I remember entering the valley and thinking, who would be stupid enough to stick a village at the end of this thing? Before spotting the road back out snaking straight up the hillside behind.

Entering the valleyLooking back down the valley

The climb was incredible, but I was very slow and when I stopped at the top and checked the tracker, GD was right behind me. No time to rest, I attacked the descent and pushed hard up the next gentle slog into town, refuelled and got straight back on the road.

The coastal roads were beyond stunning and, while trying to make good time, I took it pretty slowly and drank in the sights.

By this point, it was absolutely sweltering and the route moved back inland. Without any sea breeze, it was getting pretty uncomfortable. I was coated in sweat, burning through water and desperately seeking shade. The perfect time, then, to ride a circuit of an exposed bowl, with no trees or shade!

The tarmac was sticking to my tyres and I rode on the wrong side of the road, trying to catch whatever shade I could and feeling my skin burning. Heat aside, the road was absolutely incredible. It somehow continued to climb even after the turn and there was a real fairytale vibe, with hidden mansions, ruins, dark woods… huge kudos to Adrian finding such an incredible road!

The heat had done a real number on me and by the time I reached the next town and stopped to refuel and drink a few litres of water, Gavin had made the catch (although I never actually saw him). Thankfully, he must also have been pretty wrecked as he stopped for much longer and I put good time into him on the run into Donegal (where he subsequently stopped, leaving me to push on into the night).

Due to the sleep rule, I had to stop at some point in the next 10 hours or so, but I was keen to continue riding while I felt pretty good. I also know I’m rubbish at riding in the early morning, so figured I’d time my three hours so I woke up with the dawn. This worked pretty well, as it meant by the time I was looking for a bivvy spot, I was in a small town with an open takeaway opposite a closed service station. I grabbed as much food as I could carry, pulled out the sleeping bag and settled down for a kip out of sight.

Waking up, I felt rough as hell. The takeaway hadn’t completely agreed with me and my cold was back with a vengeance. I freewheeled out of the town and rode very gently into the sunrise, stopping regularly to fight off the dozies and try to get my head back in the game. The faffing saw a trio of riders beginning to eat into my lead, creating a gruppetto of chasers behind my third place.

As the sun came up and the route leveled out, my power slowly came back and I started settling back into the groove. I also managed to track down some more beechams and fight the cold back into submission.

At my last stop before heading for Achill, a local on a bike with a tent and various other bits and pieces strapped to it flagged me down and asked if I was part of the race. He’d ridden with Bjorn earlier in the morning and was shocked by what we were doing. He’d just come across bikepacking and decided to give it a go for the weekend, strapping whatever kit he had to hand to his bike. He was a really nice guy and his enthusiasm was contagious. I set back out with renewed vigour.

By Achill, I was starting to suffer from chafing in my shorts. I’d sweated a lot over the past couple of days and salt deposits had built up and started rubbing against my skin like sandpaper. When I finally found a petrol station with a toilet, I found a fair amount of blood, did my best to clean out my shorts and picked up some sudocrem, which was liberally applied… and regularly topped up over the rest of the day.

It was tempting to change into my spare bibs, but I was intending to ride the full race and it was still quite early. The plan was to shower at CP2 and change them there, after a short sleep.

On the way out of Achill, I saw Pawel and Karen heading in and gave both a cheer. He didn’t have a working tracker at the time, but based on relative timings, I should also have passed Brendan somewhere around here.

With my family jewels chafed and the temperature remaining high, I took the run in to CP2 pretty steady and was almost disappointed to find that the road went through the hills, rather than over them.

Worth it though for the fjord. What a stunning location for a control.

I remembered reading that there was no food at the control, so stopped at a pub on the way up and grabbed a cheeky drink and some supplies for later. I set off with an ice cream and was stopped by an American couple who said they’d seen Bjorn and Berndt and didn’t understand why I was riding along eating an ice cream when it’s supposed to be a race. Oops!

At the control, I was given a warm welcome by Adrian and Jack, who made me question my resolve not to race. Adrian felt I was dragging the chase around and animating the race and I felt pretty guilty telling him I wasn’t really feeling it. I also knew Karen was right behind me and told Adrian to tell her I wanted he to take third, but that I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. She was riding an incredible race and would have been fully deserving of third overall, but had her own setbacks to deal with as the race continued.

I ate, grabbed a shower and threw myself in a bed, with an alarm set for 3 hours (when the next riders were due to arrive). Somehow, I (and everyone else in the room) slept through the alarm and I woke up a few hours later than intended.

I felt awful – my joints hurt so much I could barely walk and my head was so bad it took me about an hour to track down all my kit and work out what I needed to do to get back on the bike. I delayed leaving and lay on a comfy sofa eating and waiting for my body to come back to life.

Three riders went off down the road and I eventually decided I had to get back out there and stop ceding places. It took me four attempts to clip in and get the bike rolling in the car park and I was barely moving all morning, doing just about enough to hold time against the riders down the road, but nothing more.

As the sun came up, my legs began to come back and I decided to start trying to close the gap and make things more interesting.

I was out of the saddle, pushing hard over climbs and then down on the extensions on the flats pushing 20mph+ and before long the first rider was within catching distance. I eventually found him stood at the side of the road, gave him a cheer as I went past and concentrated on reeling Pawel in next.

The tracker suggested I was right on top of him, but it took a while before he came into sight. He was on his bike and looked to be enjoying a second breakfast, so I passed wide and fast, giving him a quick ‘allez, allez, allez’ on the way past… he didn’t seem too impressed!

Just one more rider to catch now. I stayed locked into the extensions, pushing hard for Galway and taking huge chunks of time out of Brendan. Eventually my dot overtook Brendans and I celebrated with a quick stop behind a bush to reapply sudocrem. By the time I had finished, Brendan’s dot had reappeared a good 10km down the road. Bugger. Oh well, time to get back on it.

I spent the rest of the day pushing just as hard as I had in the morning, but being unable to reel him in. On the long coastal roads, I had a full view for miles, but no sign of any riders. My motivation was fading fast and when we started hitting the steep climbs up to the Cliffs of Moher I decided to knock it on its head and calm back down. I was feeling pretty rough and hadn’t eaten much yet, so stopped at the next petrol station for a proper feed.

Despite bimbling around, Brendan didn’t extend his lead and when I got back on the bike there was a consistent gap for the entire run into the ferry. I did some simple calculations and worked out that even if I pushed hard, I wouldn’t be able to get the same ferry, so was better off taking it really easy and aiming to arrive just before the next one.

The plan worked perfectly and I arrived with just enough time to grab some food and drink before spending the trip over chatting to Rich Marshall. I also had a look at the tracker and saw Brendan had stopped just past the ferry terminal, so I was once again going to be right on top of him.

On the far shore, I stopped for a while to pull myself together and then set off at breakneck pace to finally close that gap. I scored a top 10 up a steep climb, despite the 1,000+km in my legs, 15kg bike + kit, etc., and was averaging not far off my FTP, but it still wasn’t enough. Worse, I was now coughing so hard I was weaving all over the road and my head was a total wreck. I couldn’t concentrate and was beginning to ride in a way that felt pretty dangerous. I actually coughed so hard I came off the road and landed in someone’s front garden. I lay down for an hour or two and contemplated what to do.

The sensible choice was a B&B and it looked like there were a few just up the road at Ballyheigue. I rolled down the road ridiculously slowly, found a B&B with a room and retired to the pub for double dinner and a cheeky pint… after which I was out for the count.

I wheeled the bike out onto the road, but couldn’t lift my leg over the frame. Eventually I tilted the frame right down and forced my leg over, clipped in and tried to pedal. Nothing happened. I literally couldn’t turn the pedals, could barely support my upper body and was still coughing violently.

I half climbed, half fell off the bike, sat down on a park bench and tried to decide what to do. It didn’t take long. My race was over. I sent out a defeated tweet, messaged Adrian and lay down on the bench to get some more sleep.

I kept hoping that as the day went on I would start feeling better and be able to ride, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Adrian eventually picked me up in the afternoon and tried to talk me into getting back on the bike… I was even offered a lift back to Ballyheigue the following day if I woke up feeling better. So many hopes to cling on to! It wasn’t going to happen though – I woke up just as messed up the following morning and headed straight for the airport.

It’s taken about three weeks to start feeling human again. Lesson learned from next time – when Josh Ibbett tweets that he has a virus, so isn’t racing, pay attention and copy what the experienced guys do!

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/07/04/transatlantic-way/feed/02018-06-07 10.45.54brbrn2018-06-07 16.52.352018-06-07 20.20.382018-06-08 10.31.562018-06-08 10.46.002018-06-08 11.49.242018-06-08 12.52.26-12018-06-08 16.37.212018-06-08 17.20.202018-06-09 02.31.062018-06-09 09.16.232018-06-09 09.25.11-12018-06-09 18.02.302018-06-09 18.38.142018-06-10 05.29.34Bryan Chapman Memorial 2018https://brbrn.com/2018/07/03/bryan-chapman-memorial-2018/
https://brbrn.com/2018/07/03/bryan-chapman-memorial-2018/#respondTue, 03 Jul 2018 15:55:17 +0000http://brbrn.com/?p=1540It feels like an absolute age since I signed up to the 2018 edition of this event. It’s one of the most popular audaxes on the calendar and you need to fire off a cheque pretty early to get a place. I don’t think I’d even made up my mind which ultra race I’d be entering in 2018 when I sent in my application, but as luck would have it, the BCM is just over two weeks out from TAW, so a good final hurrah before the taper.

I figured that, once again, I’d ride out the day before, stay in the Travelodge over the Severn Bridge and aim to cycle back again on Sunday. This brings the ride up to 1,000km and would, I figured, by a good way to condition myself for riding long distance over multiple days, while still having time to recover.

The ride over to Wales was uneventful – it’s the same route I’ve been using for the past few weeks and once again, I arrived at Wales after a very easy, very brisk charge across the country. It was only about 7pm, so there was plenty of time to be sensible and head out somewhere for some proper food, but instead I decided to raid the poorly stocked petrol station and get an early night. An early night that turned into a soak in the world’s smallest bath tub and finally passing out at about 1am after getting too involved in whatever crap film was on the telly.

Excitement (and noisy audaxers outside my window unpacking their car) woke me before my alarm and I was quickly out of the door and on the bike. It was pretty cold crossing the Severn, but the sunrise was beautiful and you could tell it was going to be a cracking day.

After the usual milling around at the start, we finally set off and I resolved to take it easier than last year, when I went haring off up the road with Luke Allen. I settled in at mid-tempo pace and took it easy on the first slight descent… at which point a few lads came through and sat on the front. Fair enough – nothing like a free tow!

I sat in until around Crickhowell, where it was slowly becoming clear that the pace was beginning to ease and the front group was still quite large. I’m never a big fan of being in a large group on audaxes – 20 odd riders of varying abilities all desperately trying to hold onto a wheel for a free tow can get a bit messy and cars can lose their patience. Always better to string things out a little and force a bit of a selection.

The front rider peeled off to finish his turn just as we hit the short, steep ramp into the town and I figured that was the moment to string it out. I put in a dig, got a gap and held steady waiting to see how many could/would come with me. In the end, there were about 6 riders that managed to jump on and I settled down on the aerobars at a nice steady upper tempo pace, much happier with my smaller, tidier group of ducklings in tow.

We flew along, knocking out the miles with other riders occasionally coming through to do a turn. There was definitely a bit of a mix (or maybe some keeping their powder drier than others) and I was keeping myself amused timing the turns and trying to work out where I recognised the guy on the single speed from (which eventually led to flashbacks of him tearing my legs off at 3Down).

The approach to the first control coincides with a lovely long, gentle climb and my club mate Javier came through to sit on the front and pace us all up. He dropped into the small ring and set what felt like a very reasonable and sociable pace. Apparently others disagreed, however, as our group was swiftly whittled down to just two others willing to hold the pace and we ended up arriving at the control as a quartet… a good 15 minutes before it was due to open. Cue much sitting around and faffing to kill time.

Once we’d finally collected our receipts, we were back off down the road. This time with a bit of a reshuffle of group members. A Bynea rider had headed off early (but was swiftly caught) and Javier disappeared as we left. The five of us worked together to swiftly cover the relatively flat run into the next control and a couple of the riders asked about my plans for the ride. I’d not really planned ahead to work out timings for finishing AND riding back to London and in the heat of the moment suggested that getting back by 5-6am seemed to create enough of a buffer. Little ambitious there, Chris!

At the next control, most of the group made straight for the cafe, whereas the Bynea rider and myself popped to the Spar. I was expecting this to be the faster option, but there was a big queue and we ended up wasting a fair bit of time. He wasted less and was back off up the road a few minutes before me. It turns out, one of the cafe stoppers had also managed to get straight in and back out and was already up the road.

I was having flashbacks to the steep climbs due to appear in quick succession as soon as you leave town and wasted more time than I probably should have to avoid having to face them. By the time I finally set off, I had the road to myself and couldn’t see any riders up or down the road. This was probably a blessing in disguise as, at 82kg, the climbs are rather hard work and I’d probably have gone into the red trying to chase anyone in sight. I spent a very long time in my granny gear sweating and swearing and gently becoming aware of chafing in my shorts…

A short while after the climbs, I caught back up with the Bynea rider and we had a good chat about events, bikes and everything in-between, enjoying the much easier climb that comes after the reservoirs. It’s then a fantastic, long, fast descent down to the next info and we positively flew. Despite the fierce sun, the wind was strong and very cold and my kit quickly dried out and became salt encrusted. I think this might have been the moment when my shorts, saddle and backside all decided to have a fight. The chafing I had been aware of earlier was now becoming rather painful and each pedal stroke was making it worse.

I settled in behind Bynea and figured I’d earned a tow to the YHA. Climbing through Snowdownia, it got sweaty once more and my discomfort increased. By the time we were descending into Dolgellau, sitting on my saddle was pretty uncomfortable and pedalling felt like being stabbed in the arse. I’ve not used chamois cream in years and can’t remember the last time I had a saddle sore – clearly I was well overdue one!

At Kings I had a long sit, loosened my shoes a little (new Empires are still a touch tight around the toes and cause some rubbing) and started thinking about thinking about sorting my saddle issues. In the end, I did very little to remedy the situation and set back out a few minutes behind the two frontrunners.

I stopped shortly after Barmouth at a corner shop and decided to give my backside some more time off the bike as I was struggling to remain seated. After a few minutes, a Bristol rider rolled through and I figured I should probably just get on with it. There were a few more short stops on the run into Menai, but on the whole I was able to grit my teeth, stand for absurdly long periods of time and just about keep the speed up. I arrived at the control third and decided to have a proper think about what to do next (the train seemed VERY tempting).

Luckily the next rider in was Javier and he suggested we ride back together, take it easy and make the ride as enjoyable as possible. He pretty much saved my ride and I finally managed to get my head on a bit straighter and make a few changes to try to ease the saddle pain (while stupidly forgetting that I had a big patch of reskin in my bag, ready to go).

We headed off at a lovely steady pace and I sat on Javier’s wheel at active recovery pace while ticking away the miles at a very respectable rate. I took the lead at times, keen to ‘earn my keep’, but on the whole Javier was doing all the work and guiding me home.

His reward – where the route diverges from the route out, I suggested we go left… up a long, steep climb… instead of his suggestion that we take the same route back. Sorry Javier! The climbing is a touch gratuitous, but you get it all out of the way at the start and then it’s a very long, fast descent back towards Kings. Heading back the way you come means more rolling roads and a climb back up to Kings, which really wasn’t appealing at the time.

Once at Kings, we grabbed some food, put on all the clothes we had with us and set back out into the freezing night. This overnight section begins with two very long climbs and I overheated in my down jacket before absolutely freezing on the descents as the sweat evaporated back off. The down jacket had seemed like a good idea to minimise what I needed to pack, but in retrospect it was a poor choice.

At some point about 10 miles out from the next control the saddle pain became too much to take and I had to stop and wave Javier on. I’d remembered I had the reskin and told Javier I’d catch up when I’d finished ‘fiddling’. I’d stopped by a pub that wasn’t as closed as I thought and gave a local a dirty smirk with my hands down my shorts when he stepped out of the back door.

Reskin applied, I was much happier. I hopped back on the bike and set off for the next control while the temperature slowly dropped.

By the time I reached the control (around 1am), it was absolutely baltic and I could see my breath in the air. Between us, we agreed that it was probably better to stick around and get some sleep in the warmth, setting back out around 4.30 when the sun would be starting to rise and the air might be a touch warmer. I was being obstinate and hard to convince, but then the controllers pointed to the thick duvets and air mattresses and I decided to get on board with the plan.

When we stirred a few hours later, the smell of bacon filled the air and there were gentle snores from the adjacent mattresses. We got up, grabbed some food and headed out of the door as the sun was coming up and the air was beginning to warm. We’d picked up two strays, but quickly lost both when Javier took the next climb at a bit of a clip.

Simon caught us back up on the descent and we rode as a threesome for the rest of the morning. It was uneventful and pretty easy – once you’ve cracked the back of the early climbs, it’s a very long, easy down hill and then just some smaller lumps. We ran into issues finding somewhere to get proof of passage at the next control and then trying to find somewhere to grab breakfast, but eventually found an open petrol station, filled our boots and cracked out the rest of the ride.

By the approach to Chepstow, Javier and Simon were flagging, so I decided to take a couple of turns and then led Javier out up the final climb. I’d sat on his wheel for countless hours, so it only felt fair that I finish the ride by actually making a bit of effort. In the end, we got back to the arrivee at around the same time as when I first rode the BCM – only this time I’d actually had a couple of hours sleep, whereas last year I caught just 15-30 minutes while on the road.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/07/03/bryan-chapman-memorial-2018/feed/02018-05-19 16.05.52brbrn2018-05-19 06.55.38-12018-05-19 09.37.182018-05-19 12.35.142018-05-19 18.16.32London Wales London 2018https://brbrn.com/2018/05/15/london-wales-london-2018/
https://brbrn.com/2018/05/15/london-wales-london-2018/#respondTue, 15 May 2018 13:49:17 +0000http://brbrn.com/?p=1527This is the third time I’ve done LWL (or Severn Across, as was), so I shan’t bore you with ALL the details. Suffice to say, I once again missed my target of getting back before 9pm – this time due to sheer stupidity and deciding to wear in a brand new pair of kicks.

My Giro Empire SLX gave up the ghost a few days before LWL. I was changing out the cleats and noticed a lot of flexibility in the sole… closer inspection revealed a pretty terminal issue. In fairness, the shoes have covered some absurd mileage, but it’s still an expense I can scarce afford in the run up to TAW. I’m pretty keen on Empires, but with no good deals on SLX, I had to resort to a cheaper version (albeit, with a funky reflective finish).

This was also the first proper ride on the new Fairlight Strael v2. The Strael didn’t have the easiest birth – my rotor crank wouldn’t fit in the BB shell alongside Di2 cables, so I had to buy a new powermeter with a 24mm spindle and was beginning to resent the bike for costing twice what it should have done. I’m also used to incredibly stiff bikes, so the Strael feels quite flexy, which my body interprets as slow. No matter how much I want to believe that it’s flexy in all the right directions, but stiff in all the others, the floaty back end hadn’t been floating my boat.

The ride started as usual, with a mass start from the Chalfont St. P car park. I’ve learned from previous years that there’s always an ‘exuberant’ start, so positioned myself at the front to make a quick escape. This is part of my training for TAW, so I was keen to ride solo and (perhaps counter-intuitively) it’s easier to do that off the front than dropping back.

I’d somehow avoided bumping into anyone I knew at the start (despite being papped at close range), but after about 5 minutes looked back over my shoulder to see a massive group bowling down the road toward me and was fairly certain I could see some familiar jerseys amongst the rabble. I’d settled down after a swift start, hoping that getting out of sight quickly would mean no one was trying to ride me down, but the group felt like bloodhounds following a scent and I ended up pushing rather harder than I’d hoped to stay out of touch and avoid getting mixed up in the wheels.

Fortunately, by the first control the group had thinned significantly. They followed the official route, accessing the control by the rear exit, whereas I popped around the front. I was hoping once again to slip out unnoticed and be able to settle into an easy pace. For the most part, this seemed to work. I plodded off down the road and took things fairly easily as we neared the first lumpy sector.

I was on my own, the sun was shining, the views were as stunning as always… and I dropped the pace to the point where I was suddenly aware of a group behind me again. Oops. Fortunately, there were now only four of them. I recognised Darren and Jasmijn and figured it looked like a safe enough group to get caught up in, but was still hoping to keep banking the solo miles, so gave it a little kick to see if I could stay out in front.

Luckily they didn’t seem to be in the mood to chase. I got to Tewksbury, raided the OneStop and was pretty much ready to get moving again just as they pulled in. We had a brief chat, but I was being a bit of an antisocial arse and beat a retreat as quickly as possible to avoid sharing the work and decreasing the training value of the ride. I shoved a range of drinks down the front of my jersey and pedalled off up the road, spilling chocolate milk and Monster as I went.

I quite like the section past Tewksbury, up over Yat Rock and down to Tutshill, and settled into a very swift pace, effortlessly ticking down the miles and stopping for nothing. This was the highlight of the ride. I was untouchable and full of the joys of Spring. Or at least I was up until shortly after summiting Yat Rock. The heat was getting to me, I’d run out of water and I hadn’t really been eating. I went quite light headed, downed all the food in my pockets and started worrying about whether I should stop somewhere before the control to sort myself out.

Luckily, another rider came to my aid. Struggling up yet another climb, I looked over my shoulder to see a solitary rider not too far behind. Darren, perhaps? How the heck had he done that? I forced myself to up the power a little and tried to get back in the zone.

About five minutes later, a cheery ‘hello’ and there was a young rider at my side. Phew. Not an audaxer. Turned out he was a young racer, out for a training ride and keen to have a bit of a chat. This gave me the excuse I needed to ease off and release some of the pressure. There’s always a nice mental boost that comes with answering questions about where you’ve come from and where you’re going when you’re on an audax. ‘250km in mate, about 200 to go’ ‘what?!?!’ *detach Elemnt and show data fields* ‘bloody hell’.

I left him to get on with his ride at Tutshill, pulled into the control and got my bottles filled and grabbed some food for the road. I also downed a couple of cans of coke and enjoyed a cheeky ciggie before the next group of riders pulled up and I decided to get back on with it.

As I was leaving, the owner spotted me in the road, recognised me from last year (“first again?! I recognised the beard!”) and grabbed a quick picture before I dropped down into Chepstow.

It’s a very long way to the next control from Tutshill and it’s along roads I’ve ridden so many times I honestly find it a little soul destroying these days. To make matters worse, my Elemnt was gently losing charge and it turned out I’d packed a lightning cable instead of a USB. I stopped a couple of times in Malmesbury, but nowhere seemed to have one. Typical.

Last chance saloon was the petrol station just outside Wootton Bassett. Luckily, they had a cable and I had a proper 5 minute stop to collect myself, drink ALL the fluids and have a late lunch. I also decided the AA-powered USB charger wouldn’t make the TAW cut… it was charging the Elemnt slower than it was draining.

My feet were also starting to kill. The new Empires were too tight over the toes, the left one was digging into my ankle and the soles of my feet were on fire. I had to keep telling myself that I was getting all the pain out of the way now, breaking them in to be super comfy for all future rides (yeah, right!). The pain meant I took it really rather easy heading toward Lambourne and once again I saw some riders over my shoulder (although in retrospect, I’m not 100% convinced it was Darren, Jasmijn, et al).

By the time I got to the control it was looking possible, but unlikely that I’d be back for 9pm, so I said a quick hello and dashed straight back out the door… only to stop an hour or two later to loosen my shoes, stretch and curse. And then again in another hour (although I did at least take the opportunity to put on some more layers before the sun completely disappeared, saving a bit of time in the long run).

In the end, I rolled into Chalfont St. P at about 21.10. Every cash machine I could find said no receipts and no statements, so I ended up rolling past the community centre to a petrol station, where I was able to buy some food and get a receipt. 21.20. Good enough!

Despite missing my main goal for the ride, I came away pretty happy. The Strael had finally grown on me. That springiness under power disappears at audax cruising speeds and the ride becomes ridiculously comfortable. I tend not to end up feeling beaten up after audaxes, but there was definitely an extra layer of comfort and I felt a lot fresher riding the following day, despite having (very slightly) beaten my 15 hour power record.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/05/15/london-wales-london-2018/feed/0CapturebrbrnCaptureCaptureCapture2018-05-05 11.57.57Bothycationhttps://brbrn.com/2018/05/01/bothycation/
https://brbrn.com/2018/05/01/bothycation/#respondTue, 01 May 2018 09:24:10 +0000http://brbrn.com/?p=1515Sometimes you just need to get away from it all. Sometimes you’re a tad ‘underfunded’ for a mini break. Those are the times when I like to grab a bivvy sack and find somewhere pleasant to go and get a terrible night’s sleep.

Poring over an OS map a few weeks ago I’d spotted a bothy symbol next to a lake high up in the Brecon Beacons, with what looked like a bike-accessible path up to it and a ridge isolating the lake. There was no streetview for the access path and few clues from online shots of the lake and bothy. I figured there’s only one way to find out and after staring at pictures of the lake for a couple of weeks, I was determined to head out and explore the second the weather pushed back into the teens.

The ride over to Wales is one I’ve done endless times – both on the way to and as part of audaxes and several times just ‘because it’s there’. I’ve got a fairly straightforward, flat, fast route that’ll get you to the Severn Bridge in about 200km from South West London and I flew across England at about 30-31kph, riding a tailwind and having an absolute blast.

My plan was to get to the lake for sunset, so I’d kept the route fairly direct and on more direct, larger roads. Even so, Wales very quickly started eating into my average. It didn’t help that I’d also noticed, shortly after hitting my first proper climb of the ride, that my saddle was ridiculously low. My hamstrings and knees were screaming at me and when I got to the top I raised my saddle by a good 5cm before setting back out. Annoyingly, within about 20 minutes, the saddle had dropped again. This repeated for the remainder of the ride until I got thoroughly sick of pulling over and figured I’d just ride it out. It was a stupid decision off the back off another stupid decision which had led to the seatpost slipping in the first place.

My Bowman Layhams Disc has developed a random creak that emanates from the seat tube and the only way to silence it (I’ve tried all sorts) seems to be putting a little bit of grease on the seatpost. The second it rains, the creak comes back and you have to re-grease. Surprise surprise, it had rained the day before I was due to leave, so I greased the post – evidently I used far too much. Even trying to clean out the post and tube with roadside leaves didn’t help.

Between the faffing and losing speed to the terrain, I was starting to worry about hitting my sunset deadline. I was on the A40 and making good time, but knew I’d soon be pulling off into little side lanes and climbing to about 400 meters, before dropping back down and finally climbing the access road to the lake.

Part of the fun of mapping out long routes is that all the climbs look like speed bumps and I generally make a point of not looking too closely. Climbing higher and higher and further from civilisation, I began to regret that decision. The area around the Usk Reservoir is stunning, but mileage is hard earned. I sat in my granny gear for what felt like hours on end, watching the miles very slowly tick down.

Finally I passed a YHA – my marker for the final run in to the lake. The road dips incredibly sharply and rolls around a few hairpins. I was filled with dread for the next morning – no warm up, just a quick 10-15% climb to wake up the legs. Great. Worse was to come, however. The access path to the lake was insanely steep and composed of rough, loose gravel. In the granny gear, I could just about winch my way up at sub-walking speed. The second I tried to stand or put down a burst of power, however, the rear wheel would spin out and I’d have to put a foot down.

The path also passes a small dam on the river, where the road is barred and big signs warn of CCTV and the terrible things they’ll do to trespassers. I figured it was safer taking the walking path – a narrow goat track hanging off the side of the mountain, full of rocks and with just about enough space for walking single file. I mashed my shins on my pedals and cursed my decision to come and explore this godforsaken hell hole. Screw riding. I’m walking.

Another 5 – 10 minutes and I was finally at the top. My god was it worth it. The lake is stunning, hidden from the world, remote and peaceful. The bothy was a little less inspiring. There are endless signs forbidding camping and the bothy feels like it’s been designed with the express intention of deterring you from spending any serious time there. It’s covered in graffiti and the local youths have clearly enjoyed some late nights there. I was getting a serious Blair Witch vibe and figured I’d avoid going in until I absolutely had to.

I cracked open a beer, sat on the wall at the base of the lake and watched the sun slowly setting. I was waiting for a small group hanging out around the lake to leave so I could quickly chuck on my running shoes and climb the remainder of the mountain. Fortunately they scarpered just before it got dark and I had time to race up and drink in the view. I was truly in the middle of nowhere – from the very top you could just about make out the farm house at the base of the hill, but very little else.

As night fell and the temperature dropped, I ate my dinner and lay back to watch the stars. Sadly it was too cloudy to see all that much, but I did spot the big dipper and managed to grab a shot on my phone using a very long exposure. Probably not a great picture in the grand scheme of things, but I was pretty impressed!

Having put it off as long as possible, I beat a retreat into the bothy for a deeply unpleasant sleep. The tin roof groaned and popped all night, something was leaking and the bench was absolutely rock solid. By 4am (and a couple of hours’ sleep) I’d given up entirely and figured I’d get dressed and make a start on getting back down that gravel path. I was on slick road tyres, so I figured it’d be safer to walk. My choice was vindicated when I went to start rolling my bike and found the front tyre flat. Now out of tubes, knees creaking and thoroughly sick of gravel, I decided I’d ride to the nearest train station and re-assess the situation, but I really wasn’t feeling up to riding all the way home.

Even the incredible sunrise as I was leaving didn’t manage to raise my spirits. My knees were cooked. Too long riding too low (when I got home I found the seat post had slipped by almost 10cm!) had done too much damage and I pretty much freewheeled downhill to Abergavenny and caught the first train home. A total cop out, but I did at least have to ride 70km to get there and another 10 at the other end, so not a complete waste and still a pretty magical experience and just the mental reset needed to escape the chaos of London.

Not long now until the Transatlantic Way, so good to have my first big ride of the year ticked off after the weather we’ve been having. Just a couple more set pieces to go – LWL & BCM – and then it’s the main event. Fingers crossed I can avoid being knocked off my bike or hit by a bus this year!

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/05/01/bothycation/feed/02018-04-21 20.39.49brbrnUntitled2018-04-21 11.52.29-1.jpg2018-04-21 18.51.20.jpg2018-04-21 19.06.13.jpg2018-04-21 19.25.26-2.jpg2018-04-21 20.00.16.jpg2018-04-21 19.54.31.jpg2018-04-21 22.06.21.jpg2018-04-22 06.16.52.jpgSomething for the weekendhttps://brbrn.com/2018/02/19/something-for-the-weekend/
https://brbrn.com/2018/02/19/something-for-the-weekend/#respondMon, 19 Feb 2018 16:27:26 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=1485I’m a little behind on updates – it’s been a hectic few months and there have been no audaxes. There has, however, been adventure.

I’d been rethinking what makes me love ultra distance cycling and the inimitable Darren Franks offered the type of wisdom only he can: less badges, more fun. It’s never been about chasing achievements, but I’d lost sight of what the rides represent – the escape, the adventure, the freedom. Starting to feel trapped by thoughts like ‘if I skip this audax, will I still get my super randonneur for the year?’ was crippling my motivation.

I’m on lower mileage than any recent year, but feeling much more motivated and enjoying just throwing some belongings on a bike and heading off for a micro adventure at the weekend.

Bored of London, and seeking adventure, we looked up the snow conditions in the Lakes, booked a train and found a free room to crash in with a lovely couple in Ambleside. From idea to adventure in less than a week!

I’ve done some easy hiking in recent years, but nothing this ambitious, so new kit was called for. With so little time spent planning, I was pretty limited to grabbing what I could on Amazon and searching the loft for passable gear – at least there was no risk of being that guy with all the gear and no idea! (none of the gear and no idea is clearly better!)

As we were limited to bikes and public transport, we chose an ascent from the Old Dungeon Ghyll, up Mickelden Valley and past Angle Tarn and Great End. Weather reports were suggesting it might be a bit daft to head up Scafell, so we chose an out and back route to avoid getting to the top safely, but failing to get down an un-tested route. A little boring perhaps, but I doubt Mountain Rescue would have had any sympathy if we’d taken unnecessary risks.

We set off to a cloudy, but mild day. The O.D.G. carpark was teeming and there were plenty heading out along our route and the adjacent path. We were briefly overtaken by a small group while Alex stopped to fill her back with rocks, but quickly caught them back up in our excitement to get going.

We stopped a few times to adjust packs, take in the views and generally enjoy the morning. We had limited visibility of the hills, but could see the snow line tantalisingly close and before long there was the crunch of ice underfoot. The intensity of the crunching increased as the views were lost to the clouds and before we knew it we were in deep snow and beginning to slip and slide.

It seemed like a sensible time to crack out the crampons. I was finding it tough to balance with just a day pack – Alex’s must have been 15-20kg and from behind she looked almost drunk stumbling through the snow. My ‘crampons’ (rubber grips with some vicious spikes) immediately solved my issues, but Alex’s wire-wrapped rubber grips were having no effect and she had to upgrade to her proper mountaineering boots and crampons.

All the while, a large group behind us (mostly comprised of kids) was haring up the mountain – most without bags or supplies, all without crampons or safety kit. Part of me was impressed, although mostly I couldn’t believe anyone was irresponsible enough to have organised such a trip. Without packs, they weren’t slipping and sliding anywhere near as badly as Alex and I had, but why risk it? I don’t expect everyone to chuck on a SPOT tracker, but carry some basics at least!

As we pushed up above the cloud level, everything became white and the crowds thinned out. We had only the footprints ahead of us to guide us and saw the occasional hiker struggling with a map in the gloom. I’d thought ahead and bought my Elemnt – sure it’s not really made for hiking, but all the trails are marked and the accuracy is astounding. Best of all – no compass or reference points needed for navigation!

With a few stops on the way up and Alex’s heavy pack, we took around 4.5 hours to reach the summit. Not bad, but we’d need to hurry back down to catch our bus back to Ambleside. We enjoyed a quick sandwich and JD & Coke at the Summit, sent a video of the rocks being unloaded to Alex’s coaches and then began making our way down.

While my ‘crampons’ had been great on the way up, they were a little less grippy on the way down. The descent off the summit was incredibly steep and I suddenly found myself hurtling down on my backside, accelerating toward some rocks… and the ledge. The first rock I kicked out against went flying down the slope, but luckily the second resisted me and I came to a stop.

With the ‘crampons’ not up to the task, I decided the best bet was to slide down on my backside. Between the trekking pole and digging in a boot’s worth of ‘crampons’, I was able to arrest each slide and made it down without too much bother. With my novel approach to descending and Alex’s much lighter pack, we were very quickly back down to Angle Tarn.

We continued to pick up pace, stopping only briefly to take in some views. We’d already passed a couple of the groups behind us on the way up and were about halfway down within an hour or so of setting off.

As we made it past the last technical section of the descent, it became clear reaching the bus in time would be close run. We picked up the pace, walking faster and faster until we eventually broke into a run for the final KM or so… only to miss the bus by a matter of minutes.

With our weekend ethos of relying on the kindness of strangers, we thought we’d start walking back toward Ambleside and see if we could hitch a lift on the way. We set off into the approaching twilight and stuck our thumbs out at the occasional drivers heading our way. Each time, you could hear the revs increase as the driver accelerated to avoid having to make eye contact with us for any longer than absolutely necessary.

Just as we were giving up hope, a white Land Rover stopped and offered us a lift. One of the passengers had been in the same position as us previously and made the driver stop – what luck! We chatted with them all the way back, Alex telling them all about Everest and how to follow her adventures and them telling us about their friend also attempting Everest.

Something a little different to my usual adventures, but just as fun. There’s no real achievement, no real purpose… just an incredible weekend away.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2018/02/19/something-for-the-weekend/feed/0IMG-20180217-WA0058__01brbrn2018-02-17 14.10.352018-02-17 09.41.352018-02-17 10.05.36.jpg2018-02-17 11.13.382018-02-17 11.57.27.jpg2018-02-17 12.44.25.jpg2018-02-17 13.59.53.jpgIMG-20180217-WA0058__01IMG-20180217-WA00682018-02-17 15.48.06.jpg2018-02-17 15.51.01.jpgMille Siciliahttps://brbrn.com/2017/10/30/mille-sicilia/
https://brbrn.com/2017/10/30/mille-sicilia/#commentsMon, 30 Oct 2017 15:07:08 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=1369My season finished with LEL and I’ve mostly been mucking around since then, with no training or structure to speak of. I decided in early October to formalise that time off and take a proper rest, winding down to just commutes and occasional fun rides out with friends. It was about a week into this break that my friend Harry Everested Etna and started talking about his desire to ride a lap of Sicily in just 48 hours.

I immediately got a tingle of excitement and decided to get in touch to offer advice and see if Harry was keen on having an experienced riding partner on board – I knew he’d never ridden such a distance before and while he was certainly fit enough, surely a bit of company would make the whole endeavour a bit easier.

Luckily Harry was keen… but unfortunately the dates wouldn’t work. I stuck to my plan to stay off the bike and sent occasional emails with kit suggestions and thoughts on tactics, simply enjoying the opportunity to be on the periphery of such a cool challenge.

Then, a fortnight before Harry was due to start, my diary opened up. Things moved quickly and suddenly I’d booked flights, started packing kit and even managed to squeeze in a couple of longer training rides despite the various hurricanes and storms battering the UK.

We had a very simple plan: two riders, 1000km, 48 hours. This was Harry’s party and I was there to cheer lead, help with pacing and generally keep him on track for 48 hours. With my time off the bike, I knew I’d get round, but I thought it unlikely I’d be in any condition to really smash it and my only real goal was to add Sicily to the growing list of islands I’ve circumnavigated. My idea of a holiday… really.

A vague plan

We set off shortly after 8am from the castle in Catania after a fairly late and boozy night enjoying the local delicacies. I quickly learned that Sicilian cities are complicated one way mazes and we slowly wound our way through the streets toward the main roads along the coast. This first section was to be flat and pass the more industrial part of the coast – refineries that Harry wanted to clear early so we could enjoy the best scenery when we were tired and most needed the inspiration.

obligatory selfie at the start, full of piss and vinegar

This first section was fast, thanks to a generous tailwind and gave an easy introduction to riding in Sicily. The rules seemed pretty simple:

ride the hard shoulder (taking the lane results in much beeping, but no real danger)

don’t take your eyes off the road for more than 5 seconds – there are potholes and broken tarmac everywhere that will break your bike and body if you hit them at speed

Sicilian drivers won’t try to close pass you, but they won’t give you any room either

expect drivers to be on the phone, drunk or otherwise distracted

watch oncoming traffic closely as drivers will overtake without warning, using the full width of your lane

As we neared Siracusa, the sun was getting fierce and I was finding the heat difficult to cope with. The Sicilians were walking around in winter jackets, but having come fresh from freezing conditions in the UK, my body was struggling to adjust to the sudden onslaught of 20+ degrees. I made Harry stop regularly so I could top up bottles and chuck down cokes – he settled for Espressos and must have gotten through at least 15 by the time we finished.

Once past the refineries and heading toward the North West corner of the island, the scenery started kicking in. First vegetation, as we passed through the Tomato farms in Pachino, then the Prickly Pears and finally stunning sea views as we headed toward Gela.

Killer views on the coastal bike path

With it being the off season, many shops were shut and the roads were deserted. We were seemingly the only people mad enough to want to spend the day by the sea. We even had to contend with sand dunes on the road – it really did feel like cycling through a ghost town. At least until we stopped for lunch and found a small bar knocking out some banging euro tunes while some local kids smoked and mucked about on bikes. We smashed through some pizette and prepared to cycle off into the evening.

I hadn’t added into my calculations quite how early the sun would be setting and it slowly dawned on me that we’d be seeing much of the island in darkness. The sky was turning red by 6 o clock and it was pitch black by the time we passed Agrigento, with the temple lit spectacularly on the hill.

Riding in absolute darkness makes me dozy and I was worried that such a long night would be problematic for me. I also wasn’t sure how Harry would fare – he was holding the pace brilliantly throughout the day but we were quickly equalling his longest ever ride and entering uncharted territory.

We slowed right down and took the first night quite easy. It got very cold and the route had us diverging from the bigger roads in places, so we struggled more than we should have and came to an agreement that we’d stop following the course when it left the main roads and just follow signs to the cities and towns en-route. I was getting pretty sleepy by now and the only respite came from brightly lit tunnels and the streetlights in the towns (which were few and far between). I even resorted to two minutes sat in a petrol station forecourt staring at the overhead lights to recharge my batteries.

Recharging the batteries in the brightly lit tunnels

Fortunately, from Marsala onward the entire road was lit and any thoughts of forcing Harry to take an early nap were dispelled. Things were looking good – we’d made great time, had a few hours in hand and no disasters or set backs to speak of.

Entering Trapani, we spotted lights high above the town, realised the route headed in that direction and decided to get our heads down for a while before facing the long climb. I led Harry on a merry dance through the streets looking for a ‘comfortable’ sleeping option as this would be his first audax hotel experience, but came up short, failing to find any benches, grass or covered areas. I was getting close to suggesting some less luxurious options when Harry spotted a quiet spot behind a petrol station and we set up camp.

After the briefest of naps (I didn’t set an alarm, but think I got about 10 minutes of good quality sleep), we set back out into the pre-dawn. The road rose sharply, following a ridge line around the base of a hilltop town and I found myself gapping Harry. I started worrying that he’d pushed too hard early on and might be in for a long struggle to get round. I hit the climbs at tempo, then span out my legs while Harry caught back up.

There were several more big climbs as we headed toward San Vito Lo Capo and at the top of one, I heard a yelp from Harry and had to turn back to find him turning into a bar in desperate need of caffeine and a snack.

Breakfast with a view

The Espresso seemed to do the trick and suddenly he was glued to my wheel and pushing me hard up the climbs. I was still worried he was pushing too hard and at risk of blowing up, so gently suggested that the 48 hours was probably ambitious and it might be best to just settle for getting round (knowing full well we had good time in hand and that Harry was smart enough to figure this out for himself too).

Luckily, Harry just got stronger and stronger as the morning continued. My knee was giving me bother (something has been a bit ‘off’ since LEL and longer rides have been causing some bother) and soon Harry was riding me off his wheel and looking back over his shoulder, impatiently waiting for me to work my way back up to him.

By Palermo we were ready for a proper break and after a hectic tussle with the traffic on our way in, dived into the first bar we could find. It was a bit early in the day for me to eat properly and I couldn’t quite match Harry’s two portions, but the lasagna was amazing and the stop left me feeling revitalised and ready to conquer the rest of the island… only the bar didn’t take cards… and we didn’t have enough cash… and the nearby cash machine they pointed us to was out of service. I got on the bike and went in search of another… and then another… until finally, six machines later, I was finally able to get some money. Between the traffic both coming into and leaving Palermo and the desperate search for a working ATM, we lost a lot of time and our morale took a bit of a hit.

Fortunately, the scenery after Palermo is astounding and the road rolls gently over hills and hugs the coast line, giving incredible views. Harry continued to ride strong and I continued to follow behind, nursing my knee. By virtue of being about half my size, Harry accelerates a lot faster and having to match his changes in pace was tearing my knee apart. It felt like every time I got on his wheel, he’d see my shadow and attack… I’m certain he wasn’t, but it was hard to shake the feeling and I could feel myself getting grouchy.

Eventually I suggested that Harry push on ahead and that I’d catch him further down the road, probably in the night. What actually ended up happening was that I was able to settle into a more steady pace and held Harry in view, without over-stressing my knee. He was struggling to use his aerobars, whereas I was happy to tuck into mine and make up time on the descents for less effort.

At some point, I passed Harry and pushed on into the night, expecting him to come cruising past. Only it was getting later and later and there was just no sign of him. Evidently he’d had a couple of stops and the pace I was setting was just high enough to keep him at distance for a while. When he did eventually make the catch, it was pitch black and we agreed to regroup – safety in numbers and all that.

We made a good fist of it, working together to stay awake and keep moving, but my knee was just getting too sore. After one painful twinge too many, I threw my bike down and lent on a wall, stretching my leg and trying to relieve the pain. A few minutes later and Harry pulled up for me to give him the bad news ‘I’m going to get the train at Messina, you better push on alone – my knee’s just too sore’. It took some persuading, but he finally set off into the night alone and I sulkily followed from a distance, barely pedalling and feeling like a bit of a failure.

Approaching the North East corner of the island, I started getting dozy again and found a covered porch to have a quick nap in. I’d been chased by a dog a few minutes before and the adrenaline rush had caused a bit of a crash, leaving me gently weaving across the rode and struggling to keep my eyes open. I propped myself up against the wall, closed my eyes and snatched about 5-10 minutes. It was one of those transformative sleeps that fixes everything and I suddenly found my knee behaving and my power meter reading in triple figures again.

I set off for Messina at full bore and watched the mileage gently tick down to under 100km. Escaping Messina was a pain with the early morning traffic and lights that stayed red for hours, but shortly after the route became spectacular and I started having fun again. Bombing down the coast, enjoying gentle climbs and sweeping descents.

The mileage flew down and before I knew it I was approaching Catania. I could have sworn Harry told me the final run in was mostly downhill, but he’d also told me about a cobbled climb, so when I hit that climb I assumed the ride was done (with about 20km to go)… only to quickly find another cobbled climb… and then another climb (at least no cobbles this time) and several more after that.

The final run into Catania felt like it took an age – traffic was heavy and the route felt quite circuitous. The final push to find the meeting place with Harry took far too long, but I finally spotted him, almost exactly 48 hours from when we’d left. He’d arrived about 10 minutes beforehand, seemingly having stopped a couple of times between Messina and Catania, whereas I’d ridden non stop.

Knackered. Elated.

Mission complete. An incredible ride from Harry and something I was truly proud to be a part of. I also have to thank Harry, his wife and their friends for looking after me during my time in Sicily – amazing hosts and great ambassadors for a lovely country that I’ll definitely revisit.

I also need to thank 110+RPM (an LBS in Catania) for fixing my rear wheel when I was forced to use a broken spare after my main exploded two days before I flew out. They spent at least an hour using hammers, drifts, heat guns, superglue and god knows what else getting a rear wheel that would barely turn to function well enough to lap the island without incident – total legends.

Finally, I should also thank Bounce Balls, for kindly sending us a couple of boxes to fuel our adventure. I’m normally a big fan of picking up food enroute and enjoying whatever the locals have to offer, but the balls worked extremely well. They pack small and are light, so an obscene number fitted in my frame bag and they kept me going several times when I was feeling a bit light headed with no shops around – they’ll definitely be a regular feature in my framebag from now on!

]]>https://brbrn.com/2017/10/30/mille-sicilia/feed/2IMG_20171030_094732_768brbrnsicily.png2017-10-26 08.15.52.jpg2017-10-26 15.22.41-1.jpg2017-10-26 20.04.34-2.jpgclimbs.png2017-10-28 08.36.03.jpg2017-10-22 17.20.312017-10-25 22.54.042017-10-26 13.45.30.jpgGreenwich Mean Climbhttps://brbrn.com/2017/10/03/greenwich-mean-climb/
https://brbrn.com/2017/10/03/greenwich-mean-climb/#respondTue, 03 Oct 2017 13:40:19 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=1302GMC holds a special place in my heart – it’s the first audax I ever rode as a member of AUK. It was the end of my 2015 season, I was bored of TTing, wanted some longer rides and spotted two 300km audaxes starting within a short riding distance of home a week apart, so took the plunge. The other 300 has since fallen off the calendar, but I’m glad to see GMC is still going strong as I honestly think it’s one of the best days out in the South East.

The route and I have both changed since that first running. In 2015, I arrived on my aero bike with 23s, set off slowly in the pack worrying that 300 hilly kms was a very long way and I should conserve my energy… before dropping my group leaving Seaford and riding the remainder solo, arriving back at Ivan’s first.

Contrast with this year, turning up on a steel bike with 28s and dropping the field before the first control, again arriving at Ivan’s first… within about 5 minutes of the time I arrived first time.

For me it seems ‘you never go faster, it just gets easier’… or maybe it’s just the post-LEL food baby I’ve been carrying around slowing me down.

The early dropping of the field was accidental. I arrived early, but made myself late with what I think polite society refers to as ‘a dicky stomach’. I also spent a bit of time getting re-acquainted with one of the ACH lads I’d last met half way through the Pennines while sleep deprived. I caught the rear of the field by the top of the first short climb, reeling in the front-runners over the next couple of miles. There was a coming together at some lights, then the rider ahead was climbing a bit too slowly for me and suddenly I was alone. I wasn’t smashing the climbs, but the adrenaline from a late start probably had me hitting them a touch harder than necessary.

You get a magnificent sunrise heading out toward Ebbsfleet as the road steadily climbs, then drops, then climbs again. What should be a fairly dull dash out East via fairly large roads is actually a pleasant warm up that prepares you nicely for the fun ahead.

After Ebbsfleet, you’re off into the lanes and things start getting vertical, culminating in the climb up the back of Toys Hills from Sundridge. I remember this feeling quite substantial first time… this year it took the turn off to Emmetts Lane for me to realise I was on the first ‘major’ climb. Being on your own you can obviously take things easier and I suspect I was being very lazy on some of the climbs – certainly Kidd’s was taken at a crawl!

The descent down to Edenbridge gives you a chance to recharge the batteries and the first control is fully manned, with a cornucopia on every table. Regretfully, I didn’t stay for the feast, but hopped straight back on the bike and headed off just as the next group was arriving. The first controls are always too early for me to be hungry or in need of a stop and I wanted to be home at a sensible time regardless of the obscene amount of climbing still to come.

Once you’ve cleared The Wall and left The Ashdown Forest, the road to Seaford is lumpy, but never hard and the scenery steadily improves as you head for the coast. I fluffed one of the info controls and lost my jacket while photographing another (later rescued by another rider)… I get the need for them, but infos will never make my list of favourite things about audaxing.

Approaching Seaford, you’re faced with the magnificent High and Over. The road steadily grows more lumpy and you spot a chalk horse in the hilltop to your right… then the road ramps up steeply, before easing off. You turn a corner and grind to a crawl as the road points almost straight up. The top gets tantalisingly close and your quads start burning as you grind your teeth and mash your way to the summit. You soft pedal along the flat at the top. You can already barely breathe, but the view takes your breath away. Cliffs, the sea, Seaford unravelling down the hillside. You pick up speed as the road starts to dip and the sea temporarily disappears behind the trees and buildings.

The beach itself is a bit of a let down. Pebbles, very windswept. A quick stamping of the brevet, removing a stone from my shoe and back up to a petrol station to grab some fluid and a bite to eat. Then straight back on the bike and up the easy side of the High and Over, waving to the cyclists just arriving. The descent back down the other side is incredible – ridiculously fast and sweeping bends where you can almost touch your knee to the asphalt. More riders fighting their way up with a cheery wave as you pass.

This is where the route diverges from that first running of the event, climbing steadily toward Crowborough. I remember this leg being harder last time – a ferocious climb through a village or town that the route no longer visits. That’s not to say this leg was easy, however, and I spent a while lounging around outside the petrol station control to let my legs recover. I was expecting a tough ride into Bexhill – last time the route had massively cut against the grain and I was expecting a couple of hours of very hard, very slow riding.

I needn’t have worried. The new route was much more smooth-flowing. Still plenty of elevation, but nothing that really broke your rhythm. Before I knew it, I was in Bexhill and heading straight back up and out, wondering if I’d mis-remembered how tough this ride was.

I hadn’t. The section between Bexhill and Royal Tunbridge Wells is torturous. None of the climbs on their own are too harsh, but there’s just so many and the descents are narrow, twisty and impossible to carry speed through. There is no flow – just endless up followed by occasional down. If it wasn’t for the scenery and quiet roads, this section would be no fun whatsoever. It drags and drags and the signs for Royal Tunbridge Wells take forever to appear.

I had a sulk in the outskirts. My water was running low, I’d sweated out all my salt and the final climb had just gone on a few metres too long. I sat in a driveway and waited for my legs to finish their revolt and then free-wheeled down to the petrol station control to load up on electrolytes and try to undo some of the damage of the previous sector.

Fortunately GMC reverts to type after Royal Tunbridge Wells and you can settle back into a groove… that is, until you reach Brasted, where Brasted Hill does its very best to finish you off. Even taking it easy, I was tempted to hop off and push. It’s a brilliantly diabolical end to the climbing and a genius piece of route design.

The final run in through the outskirts of London is probably the fastest part of the day. Despite the heavy traffic, you can bomb back in at over 20mph without too much bother or just sit back and rest your legs while you descend back into Greenwich.

I arrived back at Ivan’s shortly before 7.30, rang the bell and was subjected to the usual incredible hospitality this event is known for. A beer more or less forced into my hands and two giant servings of gnocchi and pesto. Ace. Unlike last time, I decided to stick around and chat to some of the faster finishers… Mel Wasley appeared around 5-10 minutes later (an incredible performance!), but didn’t stick around… it was about an hour before the first handful appeared, by which time I had to do a runner.

I can’t recommend this event highly enough for anyone wanting a more challenging 300. It’s tough, without ever feeling gratuitous and the excellent hospitality at the end makes all the climbing totally worthwhile. I’ve yet to try its sister event, The Shark, but it’s on my list of must do events too.

Want to know what it feels like to ride the Flatlands? Set your turbo up facing the most featureless wall in your house and ride continuously for around 30 hours. No coasting, but you can climb off every few hours to get some food and drink.

I knew what I was letting myself in for, but I entered anyway. Apparently 50 audax points means another random accolade and a combination of the Flatlands, Rowlands Ramble and Greenwich Mean Climb would tip me over the magic number. It’s going to be a tough month.

After failing to sleep in the hall in Great Dunmow last year, I decided to wake up earlier this year and ride to the start instead. London to Great Dunmow is a route I’ve pretty much perfected these days and it’s a nice gentle warm up with plenty of 24 hour petrol stations en-route to grab some breakfast.

Coming into Great Dunmow with a good time buffer in hand to get signed in and set up, it suddenly started raining heavily. Odd, viscous white rain. Waitaminute… something big had gone through my front tyre and I was getting a lovely ‘Stan’s facial’. Luckily there was enough air left to get to the church, but pretty much all the sealant escaped before the hole plugged, so I had to use my time buffer to fit a tube, finally setting off a few minutes after the main field.

Despite the whole ‘not-a-race’ ethos, starting at the back definitely saw me setting out a bit hard. I settled into the aerobars, expecting a long chase, but before long was at the front of the field, chatting to Tim. At some point I’d evidently passed Oli too… at any rate, this was the last time I’d ride in company. Come Finchingfield, my route diverted from the official course and onto some slightly faster roads.

For some reason I couldn’t get comfy on the new aerobars and ended up barely using them. The extensions are long enough it looks like I’m compensating for something, so hopefully they just need a trim in order for normal service to resume. Riding on the tops and drops knackered my triceps and by the end of my ride I could barely support my upper body; weedy cyclist problems.

Much of the route up toward Boston was still fresh in my mind from LEL and I found the flatland boredom setting in earlier than usual. With the only scenery being occasional houses, trees and wind farms, it’s easy to lose the will to pedal… add in sore legs (seems LEL wasn’t quite as distant of a memory as I’d thought) and I found myself dawdling on the way to Kirton in Lindsey. When a particularly heavy thunder and lighting storm rolled through, I took the excuse to take shelter and have a break. When the rain finally eased, in one of those bizarre ‘it could only happen on an audax’ moments, the Red Arrows roared by.

As I was finishing my Co-Op control smash and grab, another audaxer arrived and we had a quick chat about the weather. It sounds like those of us at the front missed the worst of the weather, but the mid-field and back markers were getting a soaking. While we were talking I spotted my rear light hanging limply from my bike and started absent-mindedly trying to correct the angle of my dangle. Half the light bracket promptly pinged off down the road and I cursed my stupidity relying on a light with no easy/obvious ways to attach it to anything other than its magnetic bracket. Oh well, into the frame bag and I’ll think of something at Goole… or get a full night’s sleep and set back out when the sun comes up.

The road into Goole starts by promising distractions and things to look at – this year the Tour of Britain had even been through and there were green bikes everywhere. Don’t believe it, it’s a trick. You turn a corner and suddenly you’re on another long, straight highway to hell. By the time you finally reach Goole, the various bridges and lumps you have to cross feel like Alps and you’re glad of the chance to change your cadence and vary your power output. Your knees yelp in pain. Riding endless tempo with little or no variation has knackered them.

Luckily Glews Garage sells Ibuprofen and all the supplies you could possibly need to see you through the night… apart from red lights of any description. They do, however, stock electrician’s tape, which is a godsend when the tape you’ve wrapped around your pump has dried out and wont affix your light to anything. It ain’t a pretty fix, but it got me home.

My route out of Goole once again diverged from the official route. I wanted to go down a few more of the ToB roads, so headed toward Doncaster, sweeping back around for Gainsborough. Unfortunately, the rain had also decided Doncaster and its surrounds would be a great place to waste a few hours and I got utterly drenched. Between the road spray and downpours, there was no opportunity to recharge my Wahoo Elemnt and I ended up hiding in a garage forecourt creating a waterproof cover from a plastic bag.

This is perhaps the main positive I’ve taken away from this ride. I’m finally learning just to get on with things when the ride starts unravelling. I’ve made pretty dumb choices in far less adverse conditions in the past. I still felt like the world was going to end (mostly out of fear of slowing down, rather than any mechanical disaster), but I was in control.

At Gainsborough, I once again shunned the official route, following the A156 before heading into Doddington and around the outside of Lincoln. The A156 was pretty foggy in places and I found myself wondering if I’d made a mistake, but traffic was light and between the massive reflectors on the back of my bike, very bright and large rear light and reflections of my front in the fog, every single car gave me a very wide berth. Somewhere around here I also realised I have an irrational fear of wind turbines… cycling under them seriously gives me the willies… no idea why. Perhaps I’m remotely related to Don Quixote.

Perhaps controversially, considering an incident later in the night, I rode the A15 into Sleaford. It’s a long, straight road with good visibility and I’d used it the year before with no issue. In the full length I travelled, I saw maybe 4 cars and they all passed wide and safely.

I had flashbacks to trying to sleep in Sleaford last year and being awoken by the students at kicking out time. This year, I stopped long enough to get proof of passage and did a runner. It was getting properly late (/early) and the Fens are always colder than expected thanks to the lack of features to trap heat, so I was keen to clear them as quickly as possible.

The plan started slowly unravelling around the time I reached Pinchbeck. My mind had gone, driven out by the lack of stimulation and the cold was starting to settle into my bones. There was a freezing fog over the fens and I just didn’t feel safe continuing to push on when I could feel the cold working its way to my core. I flirted with a few bus stops before eventually hiding in the warmth at Thorney and refusing to move until sunrise.

After a surprisingly good sleep, I made good time to Chatteris and stopped at a petrol station to grab some breakfast and have a bit of a clean up. Visibility was maybe 100 metres when I entered, but by the time I came out the skies were clear and the sun was shining. Couldn’t have timed it better if I tried. I gorged myself on apple pies and set off for Cambridge.

I took my usual adapted route through the outskirts of Cambridge to avoid traffic and then followed my own interpretation of the ‘flat’ route to Great Dunmow. My Wahoo Elemnt had already ticked over 600km some hours ago and I wasn’t in the mood for adding any more difficulty to the ride. I stopped frequently and generally had quite a leisurely ride back to the start. Good for the soul, but I didn’t exactly make good time. Somewhere around here, on one of my many food and sunbathing breaks, a few riders whizzed by.

By the time I reached Great Dunmow, there was a small collection of riders milling around and while I was (ever so gracefully sprawled out on the floor) completing my brevet, Oli appeared and offered me salvation in the form of train advice for getting home (as Bishops Stortford wasn’t running services to Liverpool St). We bimbled off down a rather busy A road toward Chelmsford and my mileage ticked over 700km. The ride was done.

Only, at Waterloo, there were no services to Epsom. FFS! Nothing for it, I hopped back on the bike and fought the fierce headwind all the way home. Then, moments from my front door, a gust of wind caught me as I was clipping in at a light and I stacked it, grazing my knee and bruising my elbow. Flatlands, I love ya, but let’s see other people next year, yeah?

The London-Edinburgh-London was one of the first ‘ultra’ rides I ever came across and sparked a curiosity and a desire to be able to cycle such distances – not as a tourist, but against the clock and pushing to find your limits. It was a slow burn and it took until last year before I really understood the world of audax and found ‘my people’ – weirdos who ride through the night and push the limits of what’s reasonable on a bike. Last year the Transcontinental Race was my main focus, but with 2017 being an LEL year, there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to ride.

In the long run up, I had endless conversations with Darren Franks about tactics, kit choices and a plan of attack for getting around as quickly as humanly possible. I’d pretty much talked myself into turning up on a TT bike with all the trimmings before I was hit by a bus on my commute in London and had some sense knocked into me.

Now the plan was simply to get round. I’d DNF-d at the National 24 hour the weekend before LEL and my lower back and hamstring were threatening to scupper the entire ride. I settled on my usual audax set up – my Bowman Layhams Disc prototype with some clip on aero bars and my usual frame bags and kit. Nothing fancy and everything tried and tested. I also struck an agreement with Darren that we’d aim to ride together from the start to increase our odds of getting around in a good time (we were secretly aiming for a very good time). Darren was even able to persuade Jasmijn Muller to join us (fresh from winning the National 24!) – she’d be too fatigued to do many turns when the pace was hot, but a sensible head full of experience to help keep us on track, round out our little team and tow us through the night when the pace slowed.

The final spanner in the works was that Alice’s cousin (a very close cousin) had chosen the Saturday before LEL to get married… In Ludlow. Danial at LEL was amazingly accommodating, letting Darren sign me in, but the various motorways between London and Shropshire were less kind. We left at five and were back in Earlsfield for nine. I’d managed to pick up tomorrow’s food rations at a service station en-route, but still had to fit my mudguards, set up all of my frame bags and generally faff around before I could even consider sleep.

To make matters worse, my mudguards were cut to fit my old frame and the stays were too short and clearance at the chainstay bridge was too tight for the guard plus my tire. I threw tools around my kitchen for a good few minutes before hacking the bottom of the guard to fit around the tire and remembering that the stays for the front guard were uncut and would be long enough for the back. It wasn’t pretty, but looking back at the weather, I’m extremely glad I spent those precious final hours bodging a guard on. Luckily, I had a spare front clip on lying around, so bike fully prepared, I finally crawled into bed. At 1am.

All too quickly my 2am alarm went off and I woke to torrential rain and truly ghastly conditions. I loaded up Uber … £85-110 to Loughton… tempting. Very tempting.

Of course, having found my big boy pants and braved the storm, it rained just long enough to soak me through before abating. I arrived in Loughton at 4.30am drenched and surrounded by very dry, confused looking volunteers and riders.

The next challenge was getting registered – A33 didn’t exist and no one seemed sure how to resolve this. Danial to the rescue again! I was taken to a back room and handed my brevet and a rather fetching hand drawn number for my bike – I even had a few minutes spare to chat to some familiar faces (Tim Pickersgill on his fixed, Rich Leishman, who’d entered the race group at the last minute on a whim, and a few others).

A33 didn’t exist on the signing in sheet and no one seemed sure how to resolve this

There was a real mix of bikes and riders, but it certainly looked like there were a handful of very serious riders and I was keen to find Darren for a pep talk. I found Jasmijn, but no sign of Darren anywhere. We were corralled into the start pen. No Darren. Given some encouraging words. No Darren. ‘Go’. No Darren.

Balls.

Consigned to riding without him, Jasmijn and I followed the horde through the gates… where, suddenly: Darren! We pulled to the side and watched the peloton gently float off down the road while Darren sprinted to the start to get signed in. I thought we’d be in for a serious chase to catch back on, but the peloton was moving at a fairly gentle pace and we were quickly back in the thick of it.

I know the average audaxer doesn’t have much race experience, but I did expect those signing up for the ‘race group’ to perhaps be a little better at bunch riding and the lack of calls was giving me anxiety. A little way down the road, we rounded a fast flowing corner into the back of an almost stationary bunch. No warning, no shouts. I skidded and aimed for a clear patch of tarmac just off the side of the road. There was a small bridge with cobbles and rail tracks, so I can only assume the front riders heaved on the brakes and no warning was passed back. By this point I was pretty shook and resolved to force a selection into a smaller, safer group.

Darren and I had already agreed ahead of time that the A10 would be pretty quiet at that time in the morning and had decided to split from the group and take the direct route. With our TCR hats on, we’d assumed this was an obvious choice and that others would join us. They didn’t. As the peloton swung right, Darren, Jasmijn and I continued straight on toward the A10 alone. Finally we could get onto the extensions and start working on a fast, smooth ride up the country.

It was, of course, at this point that my power meter decided to crap out. I alternated between overcooking and glass cranking and calls from Darren to the tune of ‘half a log’ (as in ‘take half a log off the fire’) became de rigueur. We both took long turns, pulling at a combined average of over 20mph and encountering near enough no traffic.

We made brilliant time to St Ives, arriving first and getting to be the guinea pigs for the exciting barcode sign in system… which didn’t work. On any of our cards. Damn. Then the volunteers pointed out the carefully thought through layout of the control, asking us to pass through the food hall before exiting – ‘can we not just go?’, asked Darren. This became something of a theme for the ride – I was truly impressed by the level of thought that went into efficiently getting hundreds of people through controls as easily as possible, but it did mean bouncing controls was challenging.

Up to Spalding, the fenlands saw our speed increase further, now averaging over 21mph for the leg with a nice tailwind. I misjudged the length of the road into Spalding and left poor Darren on the front putting in an heroic tow before finally coming through and leading us into the town and the next control (who again, weren’t yet expecting us and couldn’t make our cards scan). This was probably the last control we took efficiently and the point at which we started conceding time and ground.

On the way into Louth, I became aware of a white car passing us fairly regularly on the route and it finally registered that the couple we’d been bumping into at every control so far were supporting a rider. They told us we’d been looking strong coming into the control and gave me some jovial grief for enjoying a quick ciggie break and can of coke while Darren and Jasmijn used the various facilities at the control. We weren’t stopped long, but we were definitely relaxing the pace and losing a bit of the ‘race’ mentality.

Image: Lee Wakefield

This change in mindset was cemented in Barton Upon Humber, where the heavens opened for the first time and we decided to sit it out in the luxury of a bus shelter outside the Co-Op. At the time we told ourselves we were keeping ourselves dry so we could maintain speed by missing the passing storms… how little we knew. Still, a sit, some food and a healthy helping of caffeine did me good and once the weather had settled, we eased back into it, heading for the bridge.

At which point, we began playing the jacket on, jacket off game. It was too warm to comfortably ride in all our wet weather kit continuously, but strong squalls kept coming through that would have soaked us through without our rain gear.

At Pocklington, we were greeted by a photographer in the road. It turns out Darren had a mate in the area who’d popped out to drop off a McDonalds milkshake – note to self, next time have relatives and friends appear at controls with milkshakes.

Once again, we were in and out quite quickly and continued with our mad dash north. I don’t remember much of the leg to Thirsk beyond the fact that it absolutely lashed down with rain. it was like being beaten with wet gravel and within moments we were all soaked through. Darren clearly wasn’t sticking around and charged off down the road, while Jasmijn and I scrubbed a bit of speed through the worst of the weather, reeling Darren back in when it eased. We arrived at Thirsk absolutely drenched and feeling rather sorry for ourselves. Jasmijn somehow persuaded a volunteer to go and dry pretty much all of her kit under a hand drier (!) and we all tucked into some warm food.

By this point I was really starting to struggle with fatigue. I couldn’t get warm and caffeine was having less and less influence on my ability to keep my eyes open. I had the world’s strongest coffee, but couldn’t bring myself to finish my food and mostly just sat around feeling miserable and looking sorry for myself. After a quick interview with the local paper, we were also caught by the next wave of riders – Anco, Luke and a few others. I thought this would be the low point of my ride, but far worse was to come before the night was out.

Knowing that I was on the way out, I warned Darren and Jasmijn I’d be taking a sleep at Brampton regardless. I didn’t think it’d be physically possible to get any further than that, but I was keen to get over Yad Moss before calling it a day. With that in mind, I resolved to be as useful as possible before I became a hanger on, so put in a big tow to bring us to Barnard Castle. Once again, we hit the control first (to an extremely enthusiastic welcome from the volunteers!), but the gap back to Anco, Luke and pals was much much shorter this time and they set back out into the night before us.

We finally collected our thoughts and resolved to just slog up Yad Moss. Darren’s not running on his original knees, Jasmijn’s never been a huge fan of climbing and I was a wreck, so we actually made quite a well matched team heading up and even picked up another rider near the summit (I believe this was the supported rider who eventually came third). In the pitch black, surrounded by howling wind and with only the snow depth markers to guide you, Yad Moss is a horrible bastard of a climb. Darren was watching the elevation and calling the distance to the summit, but in my fatigued state I could have sworn the numbers were going the wrong way and the final five minutes of climbing lasted an eternity.

On the way up, Darren warned me he was planning on bombing down the other side and wanted to check I was OK with being dropped (I’ve come a cropper riding at speed in the dark before and was far too fatigued to be game for a poorly lit roller coaster descent – not to mention my light had taken on water and developed a fun feature whereby the beam would cut out if I hit a big enough bump). It took some persuading to encourage him to go have his fun and that I’d be fine meeting them at Brampton and then suddenly I was alone. The descent is largely shallow and sweeping and luckily I’d been forewarned about the cobbles at Alston, so passed through at snail’s pace (it sounds like Darren’s chamois might have needed a clean after he discovered the cobbles…) and just kept gently plugging away. By the end of the Pennines I was actually back with the group, but a huge onslaught of the dozies and some gentle rain saw me lose contact on the run into Brampton.

By the time I reached Brampton, I could see Darren and Jasmijn’s bikes, but had no clue where they were and was frankly too tired to do anything about it. I bumbled through the control in a fugue state, eventually finding a friendly looking volunteer who offered to set me up with a bed. ‘How long do you want?’ ‘Oh, I’d better only take half an hour’ ‘OK, so give me a time and I’ll come wake you up’ ‘about 2.50?’ ‘that’s 5 minutes from now’ ‘umm… my brain no work. Can you pick a time for me please?’. A few seconds later I was stripping off wet kit, my head hit the floor and I was out like a light.

I was woken by a bright light in the face, completely disoriented and utterly exhausted. After a few minutes of scratching my head and pulling on wet kit, I’d remembered that I was riding LEL, it was early morning on Monday and there was still a long way to go. I still had no idea where Darren and Jasmijn were (I’d assumed they’d be long gone) but could hear it was absolutely chucking it down, so resolved to stay inside.

I went and sat in the loos for a good ten minutes. There was an attempt at drying kit, but mostly I just sat there trying to find my sanity and come up with a plan. A proper plan was too challenging, so I instead planned to find the food hall and figure it out from there.

Two of the sweetest volunteers I’ve ever encountered got me fed and gave me a couple of coke bottles and I slowly started coming round. It finally dawned on me that I should turn my mobile back on and as if by magic a text from Darren appeared – “we’re sleeping til 3.55. Suggest you grab some food and we should be all done at the same time”. Perfect! Although by this point I was starting to feel extremely guilty about derailing their ride – I certainly didn’t feel like I deserved to be waited for.

The good luck continued and the biblical downpour we’d slept through began clearing as we got on the bikes and rolled out of the control. I even began to feel rested and put in a short turn… what a mistake. After 10 minutes of real positivity and thinking I was back on it, the dozies hit hard and I was relegated to sitting at the back alternating between slapping myself in the face and feeling like I was about to throw up. Darren found a truck stop he’s used previously and we ground to an unceremonious stop. I sat outside and had stern words with myself while Darren and Jasmjin went inside to get a drink… and presumably work out a plan for leaving me at the next control with no hard feelings (certainly that’s what I’d have been discussing if I’d been inside). Stern words had, I got out my trusty pocket radio, turned the dial to 11 and resolved to keep myself awake with the cheeriest pop garbage I could find.

The radio worked well and I felt comfortable tucked in at the back, so was a bit surprised when the group pulled into a service station. I’m still not sure if it was Darren and Jasmijn trying to preemptively look after me or if they themselves were tiring. Either way, having finally started to wake up a bit, the last thing I needed was a break and I mostly stood around outside trying to keep myself alert and waiting for the ride to resume.

When we reached Moffat, I spoke to Darren and explained that I would definitely need some more sleep, but that I wanted it to be at Edinburgh and just had to keep pushing (both he and Jasmijn seemed keen to use at least some of the control’s facilities). He gave me his blessing to head straight out and we agreed to either meet on the road or at Edinburgh and I chased off after the rider ahead who had just left.

Despite pushing quite hard up the climb out of Moffat, the rider up the road gradually pulled further ahead until he was out of sight. I had a good view down the valley, but couldn’t see Darren and Jasmijn, so settled into a rhythm and began tapping out the miles to Edinburgh.

Between the incredible scenery and the Radio One Breakfast Show roaring away in my left ear, I made good time and was fifth to arrive. I was shocked. I suck at maths when I’m with it, but in my exhaustion I’d assumed we must have conceded a great deal of ground and that we’d be right near the back end of the field. I was pleasantly surprised and knew this meant I could get a proper sleep – it took all my resolve not to book a bed for the foreseeable and jump straight into it.

Instead, I waited for Darren to arrive, gave him a quick update on our placing and then we both watched Jasmijn roll in and confused the volunteers by encouraging her to bunny hop the curb, which she duly declined (Jasmijn doesn’t like to risk curbs and both Darren and I thought it was hilarious that the National 24 champion could be defeated by something as simple as a curb… we were tired and it seemed funny at the time).

Having spoken to Darren and Jasmijn, I decided to grab two hours sleep and fully expected them to be gone when I awoke. Once again, the second my head hit the mattress, I was asleep. I never made it through the full two hours, however, and something woke me about an hour later. I started pulling on my kit and one of the volunteers (literally the nicest lady ever, who looked after me amazingly for the duration of my time at Edinburgh) informed me that Darren and Jasmijn were just gearing up to leave. Fantastic! Gang’s back together!

I was still feeling some serious guilt about slowing Darren and Jasmijn down, so told them I’d pop off down the road to visit a petrol station and catch them en-route. Darren asked me to pick up some ibuprofen for him and I assumed that would be the last time I’d see them – that they’d go flying down the road while I faffed at a petrol station and get the quick time they deserved, without the anchor here weighing them down.

But then something strange happened. We hit the first drag and I gently cruised past Darren and then past Jasmijn. Then a longer climb and the gap got bigger. We’d agreed ahead of time that we’d not wait at the top of climbs, so I just settled into a sensible tempo and headed up the road, occasionally looking back for signs of life.

On the road to Innerleithen I finally found that petrol station and grabbed some food for myself and some ibuprofen for Darren. As I left, I still hadn’t seen any sign of them, so assumed they’d probably gone past and that I might see them at the control.

They hadn’t. The controllers informed me I was now fourth on the road and I left the ibuprofen with them, asking them to pass it to Darren and let him know I’d wait at Barnard Castle, after the hills. As I left Innerleithen, I saw Darren and Jasmijn arriving, yelled about the ibuprofen and then settled back into my ride (starting to tire somewhat of the fact Radio One seemingly only has access to about six songs).

Shortly after, another rider caught me as I was climbing a seemingly never-ending, but quite gradual pass. He suggested that we work together, but having already caught me, was clearly more rested and riding better. His English wasn’t great and my (anything other than English) isn’t great, so I explained that my knee was hurting and encouraged him to head on up the road. I felt a bit guilty, but I struggle riding to anyone else’s pace at the best of times and I really needed to just be on my own.

It was hard going, with heavy showers and strong winds, but before long I saw the flapping flags at the Buddhist Temple and knew the control at Eskdalemuir wasn’t far. I cycled past a monk dressed all in red with a giant red golf umbrella and was ushered into the control just behind the now fourth rider, who had punctured on the way in.

We sat and ate some of the best soup I’ve ever tasted (nothing to do with being exhausted, cold and soaking wet, really) and chatted a bit about plans and timings. He was going to rest at Brampton and the volunteers said riders two and three weren’t that far ahead, but Anco would be untouchable having passed many hours ago. We joked about me getting on the podium if I cracked on, but I was pretty content with fourth and felt it was unlikely I’d catch anyone else (for some reason the many hundreds of kilometres left didn’t strike me as a long enough distance to make up time over…).

Before leaving the control, I managed to blag a roll up off one of the chefs. He was genuinely one of the nicest guys I’d met all trip – not a cyclist, but extremely interested in what we were all up to, keen to hear about the route and understand the challenge. I was too tired to notice while I was rolling, but it turns out there was a little something extra in with his tobacco – the poor guy seemed mortified when the unmistakable smell wafted off the roll up, but I thought it was hilarious and the tiniest pinch of weed imaginable was hardly going to affect my ride… who knows, it might even have numbed my aching joints a little! He told me to aim for the podium and try to at least steal second… I told him it was unlikely but that I’d try. I honestly think his motivational little chat is partly to blame for the fact I did indeed chase down second place.

Before leaving, I once again left a message for Darren and Jasmijn, suggesting I might wait at Brampton rather than being too gung ho and pressing ahead (I wasn’t sure on timings, but it seemed unlikely I’d get over Yad Moss in daylight, so I thought it might be best to get some sleep first. Later, I got the response ‘Don’t wait unless it’s your strategy. We are very slow. That’s ours! Go if you are strong’ and I quickly went from ‘winging it’ to ‘on a mission’, determined to ride down a podium position.

On the road into Brampton I started seeing riders heading North and made a point of waving or giving a thumbs up to everyone I saw – in return I got cheers, caps being waved, bells being rung. It was amazing and I flew. All that positive energy washed over me and I suddenly felt rested and strong. I decided ‘to hell with it, I’m going up Yad Moss while there’s still some light’, passed through Brampton Control in record time and headed off up the road churning out a steady 250-280 watts.

All the way up Yad Moss was an endless stream of cheering, waving and smiling riders. Even when the rain hit and the sun began to set. I stopped briefly in Alston to refuel at the petrol station and chat to a few of the riders. Somehow, no matter where in the world I am, I’ll always find someone that knows Nick Clarke and tonight was no different, bumping into his colleague Jim and chatting about the National 24.

With darkness upon me, the cheering stopped, but the sight of so many riders still struggling up the climb buoyed me on. Approaching the summit I passed the pop up cafe and got a resounding cheer and then it was on into the night. On the descent my light cut out twice and I was very slow making my way to Barnard Castle, terrified I’d lose the light on a corner and be unable to avoid a crash.

Upon arriving at Barnard Castle, I was informed I was now in easy catching distance of third, so fourth had indeed stopped for his sleep at Brampton. I was so tired I couldn’t work the tea urn and another marvellous helper filled my mug for me and made sure I was in one piece before going off to help the riders still heading north. I sat dazed for a good 15 minutes, trying to decide whether I needed a nap before heading back out into the night (but not before letting one poor sod know what he was in for climbing Yad Moss at this time of night).

Having left Barnard Castle at around 1am (heading the ‘wrong way’ according to a bunch of riders I met on the road!), it took me until 5.45am to get to Thirsk. It was an unbelievably tough night, with relentless dozies and plenty of lost moments where I stayed on the bike, but I don’t think I stayed conscious. In the lost hours, I slept in a luxurious bus stop, a passable park bench and a filthy and wet grass verge. Every time I could only snatch the faintest, briefest whiff of sleep, but it somehow kept me going til the sun came up and by the time I arrived in Thirsk I was told I’d stolen third. He promptly arrived, took third back and dashed back off into the night.

I started getting ideas above my station and decided I was going to reel third back in permanently. I had a few hundred km to turn the screws and now that the sun was up, I was starting to feel more human again and the watts were slowly creeping back up. I settled down into the best aero tuck I could manage (which by this point must have looked like a narcoleptic octopus wrestling a wheelie bin) and headed for Pocklington.

The power numbers stayed high and the miles fell effortlessly. What felt like it should have been about a three hour transition was nearer two hours and I reached Pocklington having resolutely stolen third place. Third was now mine to lose and I was in my favourite position – the hunted, with an unknown aggressor chasing me down from an unknown distance at an unknown speed. Every move would now need to be efficient and purposeful, there was no way on earth I was going to concede my newly earned place.

So of course, I promptly stopped for a feast outside that same Co-Op at Barton-upon-Humber. I texted my father saying I’d stopped for lunch… it was 9.45am! While I was sat devouring ice cream and chicken sandwiches, a local lad headed over and asked what was with all the cyclists on funky bikes. I don’t think he believed me when I told him I’d been in London two days ago, Edinburgh yesterday and was on my way back down. He told me he’d been reading about Guy Martin’s Tour Divide and gave me some words of encouragement before walking off muttering about doing his own bike back up and going for a ride.

Having refuelled, the leg to Louth passed quickly and easily enough. The controllers jokingly told me I had to get second place and I explained how impossible that would be with the distance left and this being my first audax over 600km, oh and did I mention I’ve had no bleeding sleep?! But the seed was planted and I started getting time checks from Alice at home. Two down the road. Forget about Anco. Second place checked in two hours before you. The rider behind was an hour later into Pocklington. The rider behind that was another two hours.

My confidence levels were rising, right up to the point that I hit the flatlands and the bastard headwind. Oh shit. The chase is over. No matter how low I got on the bike, forward movement was limited. Even on fresh legs, that headwind would have been cruel, but after a thousand km, it was soul destroying. I pushed as hard as I could and stopped regularly to sit at the side of the road, screaming at the wind and cursing my bike. Each time, I’d allow myself about ten minutes, then jump back on and force myself to spend at least 30 minutes pushing into the relentless gale.

Finally, signs for Spalding appeared and I fought my way into the town. Presumably there’s a complex one way system I didn’t spot, as the signs took me round a massive diversion to get to the control. I’d completely lost my humour by the time I arrived… hopefully I didn’t take it out on any of the volunteers. Alice had let me know I’d halved the time to second place and I was keen to get straight back on the road.

The mental boost from smashing second place’s lead made the headwind feel trivial and I hunkered down in full chase mode. It was about this point that I started noticing the salt deposits in my shorts – I’d foolishly forgone any bag drops and was using the same set of kit for the full ride and, while the shorts had performed astoundingly, things were starting to rub. I found a quiet corner of a a field and had a fiddle with some wet wipes. Must have been quite the sight if anyone spotted me and sadly I’d left it so late that the clean up operation did little more than aggravate my skin and set in motion my gradual decline into the land of wrecked backsides.

When I finally arrived in St Ives I was informed second place had stopped for around 20 minutes, had a massage and was looking tired. Apparently I was the most ‘with it’ rider they’d had through, so I dread to think what state the other two were in! I grabbed two flapjacks and headed straight back out the door, determined to catch second place before the end of the guided busway.

I never found him on the busway, but I was drafted by some plonker on a Canondale, who kept staring at me while riding straight into the path of oncoming cyclists. Absolute berk that nearly caused 3 collisions in the space of 10 minutes. I was far too tired to have words, but couldn’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to draft the stinky, clearly exhausted guy pushing down the busway at 19mph.

I really don’t remember the run in to Great Easton and Loughton. I remember that my feet started hurting from the outskirts of Cambridge, that every single pedal stroke was like stepping on Lego bricks. Every bump in the road was like sitting on broken glass. Every single mile was pure willpower and the voice screaming ‘stop and rest for five minutes’ was relentless. I remember the volunteers at Great Easton telling me I was in second and I remember apologising for not sticking around and heading straight back out the door. I remember my front light refusing to take charge, that the roads were dark and I only had an hour and a half of light at the lowest setting. I remember screaming into the darkness on another god damn drag on the stupid winding road to Loughton.

Finally, I remember seeing a crowd of people standing by the school. Seeing my father and my girlfriend and being completely confused. Unable to decide if they were really there or if I’d fallen in a ditch and was now dreaming. Shaking hands with Anco and discussing the state of our feet, congratulating him on a truly outstanding ride. Desperately trying to converse with my family, but not being able to find any words and finally shuffling off to the shower blocks, barely able to walk on my shredded feet. Feeling more human, but terrified as a passenger in the car seeing roads moving past at inhuman speeds and finally closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2017/08/07/london-edinburgh-london/feed/15Screenshot_20170802-215706brbrnIMG_20170804_130831.jpg20448941_10213469936204043_7652624193398063225_oCharlotte Barnes: LEL2017 Hard Riders project &emdash; DSC_64232017-08-01 23.49.39-1.jpgWilly Warmer 200km Audaxhttps://brbrn.com/2017/01/23/back-in-gear/
https://brbrn.com/2017/01/23/back-in-gear/#respondMon, 23 Jan 2017 16:15:42 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=899It’s been a long winter waiting for audax season to kick back in. I spent October-December working a couple of days a week in Amsterdam and watching my fitness slowly unravel from the endless lack of sleep, lack of training time and days off the bike, so January couldn’t come soon enough. The glamour of international travel quickly wears off after a few 4am starts to hop on the turbo before sitting in a combination of taxis, planes and trains for the next 4 hours.

Christmas was spent churning out hundred milers and some shorter, sharper efforts to wake my legs back up… and perhaps chasing mileage to knock a club mate off the top spot of the leader boards… So I begin my audax season this year at approximately the same level of fitness as last year, albeit now with an Edington number of 97.

So my first audax of 2017 was to be the Willy Warmer – 200km from Chalfont St Peter out to Hungerford and back. Of course, shortly after subscribing the country froze over and a balmy -6 degrees was forecast for much of the day/route. Still, winter miles = summer smiles and doubly so when it’s wet and/or freezing.

I woke up at 5am and threw on every item of clothing I own. I’ve never rocked the knee warmers over tights look before, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Having wrapped myself up as some sort of absurdist cycling burrito, I headed off into the dark quietly mumbling to myself about how ‘it will definitely get warmer when the sun comes up’. It didn’t.

I also forgot I’d routed to the start before I knew about the freezing weather, so had a few unsalted lanes to contend with and ended up arriving at HQ just as everyone was leaving. Oh well, quick wave to Paul over the road, grab my brevet card and get chasing. Miss a turn at the first roundabout, jump the central reservation and resume chasing. Settle into a rhythm and gradually reel in more and more riders… while wondering why gears are starting to skip and my chain is rubbing the mech…

By Marlow it was obvious that my cranks had worked loose and I’d have to find a bike shop pronto. Fortunately, Google informed me there was a bike shop round the corner. With a name like Saddle Safari I didn’t hold much hope, but they were brilliant – even got the torque wrench out without being asked. Honestly, I’m not ever sure they were even officially open yet, so massive respect. Proper quality local bike shop.

Strava tells me I was only out of action for 5 minutes and I was able to catch up with Paul by the first control point, so it can’t have been as catastrophic as it felt at the time. Still, no rest for the wicked, Paul chivied me through the control as quickly as possible and we set straight back out and started picking up other riders. With the extreme cold and occasional patches of ice, I decided to stick at Paul’s pace and take things a bit more cautiously… turns out riding faster’s a false economy when you encounter a rider like Paul though. I thought I was quick at controls, but he takes the biscuit. The man never stops.

At Hungerford, my post office raid was far too leisurely for Paul who simply grabbed some Yazoo and jumped straight back on his bike, promising to see me further up the road. This theme continued… my bars worked loose to the point where I had to stop to sort them… ‘I’ll keep rolling and see you down the road’! Despite working at speeds an F1 pit crew would be proud of, I was out of action long enough that Paul was several KM down the road before I’d set back off (and of course he later admitted to putting in a dig!).

By the time I finally caught him I was gagging for a pee… only I really didn’t want to stop and have to chase him back down. Again. After internally debating the pros and cons of attempting to pee on the move in sub zero temperatures, I finally pulled over and accepted my fate. Fortunately, the earlier dig seemed to have blunted Paul’s legs a little (or maybe he was taking it easy) and I quickly caught him back up and we rode to the finish together.

Despite the slightly more leisurely pace, I’m not convinced I’d have gotten round any faster at my usual pace. Some serious lessons learnt in the art of not faffing and just keeping on moving. The lesson was further rammed home by the fact that Frank (who’d ridden with us at times, but dropped back on some of the hills) arrived only 15 minutes after us – another rider that just gets his head down and gets it done.

All in all a great day out and an event I’d happily recommend as a nice early season leg opener. Nothing too tough, plenty of nice scenery and great organisation.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2017/01/23/back-in-gear/feed/0wwbrbrnFlatland 600 (Super Randonneur)https://brbrn.com/2016/09/12/super-randonneur/
https://brbrn.com/2016/09/12/super-randonneur/#respondMon, 12 Sep 2016 13:05:59 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=838A week before the Transcontinental I was knocked off my bike. Two teenage girls stepped out in front of me without looking – one ran when she heard my shout and the other froze. I’d scrubbed pretty much all of my speed by the time I collided with the girl that froze, but my momentum threw me over the handlebars and I landed hard on my head and shoulder. There was a loud pop and an extraordinary amount of pain.

Long story short, I was sent home from hospital with a sling and advice from the doctor that ‘exercise won’t make it worse – if you can ride, your race won’t cause any further damage or set back your healing’. So that was my mind made up – I was riding the TCR.

In reality, despite managing to get on the bike, I was still very broken by the time I reached the starting line. Not just my shoulder, but lost form from not riding and heavy bruising across my torso and legs. I’d told myself I’d just take it easy and have fun… the fun stopped the second we hit the Muur and I had to wrestle the bars to avoid coming off. Every bump was a sharp wave of pain and nausea.

Barely past the French border, the pain had taken its toll and I was physically and mentally exhausted. I found a bus stop and took five minutes. A few miles later I found a better bus stop and took 15 minutes. Just down the road I found a sheltered piece of lawn, laid out my sleeping bag and got my head down for a solid three hours. The trend continued – I woke up, rode, stopped in pain and had a rest until around midday when, having thrown up from the pain, I accepted it was time to bail and headed for Paris at a relative crawl.

A week of rest once back in London made no end of difference. Had the TCR started just 5-10 days later, I reckon I’d have made it round. We booked a cottage in Somerset and had a domestic training camp shortly after – my fitness was definitely down and my shoulder still hurt, but at least I was riding again.

Of course, as the world hates me this year, I then took a tumble in the rain and smashed my face in. Fortunately, the rain meant I didn’t pick up too much road rash, but my eyebrow had to be super glued and the doctors are fairly convinced there’s a fracture in my face (I’ve had so many X-Rays already this year, they’re unwilling to subject me to more… particularly as the treatment was likely just to be ‘leave it alone and it’ll heal’).

By this point I was pretty despondent. My season was over with no achievements (other than the fastest Redhill CC 25 TT of the year) and my fitness/form has utterly tanked from so much time off the bike and the various injuries. It took a lot of moping before I remembered that one of my supplemental goals for this year was to pick up my Super Randonneur for the year at the Flatlands 600… OK, so I wouldn’t be able to use aero bars, but it’s an ‘easy’ 600, it’s fairly local and it passes near my Dad’s house and other friends/relatives en-route, so it’s easy to bail…

Having committed to riding, the weather forecast turned foul just to really tighten the screws. Oh well, full frame bag fitted, sleeping gear, waterproof gear and enough bonk rations to feed an army and I was on my way. I didn’t take any pictures as the views were obscured by rain and/or darkness and there are enough ride reports out there, but a few thoughts…

Being first to the only manned control gets you no points, but it gives a nice confidence boost

If your shorts start to hurt at 50km, don’t bother stopping to faff, they’ll still hurt by 550km regardless

Locals will loudly question your sanity if you request three balance print outs from a cash point in the space of a minute (to ensure the stamp matches the control opening time)

The Castelli Idro is handcrafted by witches. An entire day of being pissed on, yet my jersey was bone dry. No boil in the bag despite being a moderately warm day too

Laughing off a local offering you a lift back to Essex at the mid-way point is easy… finding a local willing to give you a lift back nearer the finish is hard

A 600 is a bad choice for getting ‘creative’ with the route sheet for the first time

Gravel tracks near dogging spots at 10/11pm will give you a much needed adrenaline boost

A roads late at night are excellent. Busy A road diversions when the cycle tracks near Cambridge are closed are less excellent. There’s a reason TTs have to be off the A14 by 9.30am!

I get the dozies shortly after midnight, no matter how rested I am. A can of Monster will cure this for approximately an hour. Incidentally, finding Monster after around 1/2am is hard

I am bad at finding places to sleep. The first bus shelter on the outskirts of Sleaford must have been near uni accommodation (I was awoken by a young lady in a onesie) and the second was nowhere near sheltered enough (christ it was cold)

When your arse, knee, shoulder and wrists hurt, just accept that you’ll spend the rest of the ride as follows: 5min cycling on the tops, 5 mins cycling in the drops, 5 mins cycling on the hoods, 30 seconds out of the saddle, no handed as long as the road allows – repeated ad infinitum.

Finishing a 600 is an anticlimax. I filled in my brevet on a bench and posted it through the organiser’s front door. There was no confetti, balloons or cheering. Next time, I’m renting a crowd for the occasion.

So I’ve now ridden 1,500km of audaxes this year. In fact, it’s a year (almost to the day) since I rode my first audax. Plenty of people get their SR each year, but it’s still an achievement (and a new one for me – newness is always good). Apparently if I keep doing this until I’m 40, I’ll qualify as an Ultra Randonneur, so there’s something to aim for!

Not sure yet what next year entails, but it won’t be the transcontinental. There are too many endurance rides out there, too many events I want to enter – TCR can’t take precedence over them all. Sure, I could fit a couple alongside it each year, but it’s an all consuming beast of a ride and I really don’t want to get caught in a cycle of endlessly chasing a single event when there’s so much more to experience out there. I was treating this as a ‘one and done’ – the fact that fate dealt me a shitty hand doesn’t change that. If I’m not too old by the time I’ve worked through my longer list of events (or the format at TCR changes drastically), I’ll revisit it.

I’ve pre-entered LEL, so I think I might focus on events that cross or circle single countries next year… There’s a Swedish end-to-end, Hard Cro and several others that would fit this theme nicely. For now, I just need to stay injury free and try to regain some of the fitness I’ve lost. I might do something audacious for the Festive 500, but otherwise, it’s time to put my feet up and just have fun on the bike.

]]>https://brbrn.com/2016/09/12/super-randonneur/feed/0ridebrbrn2016-07-20 09.42.47.jpgDunwich Dynamohttps://brbrn.com/2016/07/18/the-final-countdown/
https://brbrn.com/2016/07/18/the-final-countdown/#respondMon, 18 Jul 2016 09:49:31 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=784This weekend saw my final chance to test my full TCR setup (which now contains almost none of my original kit) over a long distance and iron out any wrinkles. In now traditional style, this meant the weekend started with discovering my rear wheel was dead. One of the nipples had pulled through the rim, knocking it out of true and compromising the wheel. Bugger. I was a real fan of my Aero Light Hunt wheels, but I don’t think I’ll be using them for anything strenuous in future – they’re on Sunday best duty from now on! Fortunately I was able to pick up some nice robust Mavics at short notice… I’ve never been blown away by Mavic wheels, but you generally know what you’re getting and they feel like a safe bet at this point (even if they do concede quite a bit of weight to the Hunts…).

So – new wheels, new bags (Blackburn seat pack replaces the Revelate frame bag), new sleeping kit (Yeti Fever Zero sleeping bag replaces MSR E Bivi) and a whole bunch of re-jigging. I’m pretty happy with the result – what feels like a fairly light set up that’s quick and easy to access, has spare space and provides a bit more protection for foul weather (the seat pack uses a removable dry bag). I’m pretty certain I’ve got my final kit list nailed (and there’ll probably be an in-depth post nearer the time.

On to the test ride…

Each year in July when the moon is at its fullest, thousands of cyclists meet at London Fields and ride out to the Suffolk coast in a ride known as the Dunwich Dynamo, or DunRun. It’s not an organised event, there’s no brevet card, no finisher list or even a specific start time. People gather from around 7 and slowly start leaving over the next few hours, arriving in Dunwich any time from midnight through to the early afternoon of the following day.

It’s a ride I did last year on a whim after winning my club’s open sporting time trial and absolutely loved, so obviously had to go back this year. It’s also traditionally been the final test ride for TCR riders from the region, so I knew there was a good chance of bumping into some kindred spirits and a club mate had arranged to come along and keep me company.

Last year we left London around 8.30 and it took hours of filtering slow moving cars and bikes to get to Epping, so we decided to make an earlier start this year, heading off while most people were still enjoying the pubs and party atmosphere at London Fields. What took us nearly 2 hours last year, took around 30 minutes!

By the time we’d hit the lanes I was slightly falling in love with the Schwalbe S-Ones I’d fitted. I’ve been training on a mix of Hutchinson Sector 28s and Schwalbe Pro One Evos, but the S-Ones have been impossible to get hold of in the UK, so this was the first time I’d used them in anger (having finally gotten hold of a second pair this week, which I’ll keep pristine ready for TCR).

The Pro Ones were genuinely some of the best tyres I’ve ever ridden, but I just don’t believe they’ll last the distance (although I do wonder about the 28s). The Sector 28s are also brilliant, but feel like a winter tyre and don’t give as smooth a ride as I’d been expecting (they will, however, take any abuse you throw at them). The S-Ones combine the best of both – the ride quality is sublime, yet fast and after 300km of chip and seal roads, pot holes, gravel and mud there’s not a single mark on them. Tyre nirvana.

As we passed through Epping and out of the suburbs, I’d left my Wahoo Elemnt charging off the dynamo while there was still sunlight, keen to ensure it had a full battery before it got dark and I needed to turn the screen back-light on. I’ve not used the dynamo much in the dark yet, so wanted to make sure I was covered if there wasn’t enough power to keep me lit AND charged. I was pleasantly surprised to find I needn’t have worried – as darkness fell, my lights came on and the Elemnt stayed fully charged. The front light was maybe a few percent dimmer than if the Elemnt was unplugged, but it was fine running even on high power mode while still providing charge. Sure, the ride was very flat and fast, but it’s reassuring to know that all but the hilliest stages should be fine. I’m using this as an excuse to scale down to a slightly smaller battery pack for the TCR, to save a bit of space and weight.

Being so far ahead of the majority of the ride, Matt and I made pretty good time and had few real incidents of note – just a fast, enjoyable ride out into the countryside. It was only in the final third (having taken a leisurely stop at one of the pop-up catering points) that we encountered many cyclists and started playing leap frog with some of the faster groups. In the really dark, narrow lanes, I realised I’ve got my dynamo light angled a little too low – it’s more than enough to see by, but having a view of a few feet further up the road would be reassuring and the light is clearly strong enough to cope.

About 15 miles from Dunwich (at another rest stop), Matt got a case of the dozies and we ended up having an extended stop. I was keen to push on and have a proper sleep on the beach, but I also know how quickly the dozies can come on and would rather Matt felt safe covering the final very dark and twisty section of the route. We lost about an hour in total, but still made it to the beach for around 3-4am, ahead of the vast majority of the ride.

I found a nice flat section of beach, laid out the sleeping bag and put my head down for a couple of hours of truly blissful sleep. Such a difference from sleeping in the bivi – no condensation, proper warmth and even some added comfort from the minimal padding. The bag has a 30 gram penalty over my bivi (which was already one of the lightest bivis available), so it’s a compromise I’m more than happy to make. It claims to be ‘weather resistant’, but I think I’m limited to finding sheltered spots to sleep in on the TCR – no setting up in puddles or anywhere rain might get blown into.

Matt and I had intended to ride back home from Dunwich, but by the time we set off my stomach was doing somersaults and I was really struggling to hold food down. I think the burger I’d had the night before was under-cooked and had upset my stomach. I could ride, but not particularly fast (although we still averaged 29kph) and I had to stop a couple of times when the waves of nausea got too much. Not good. We decided to bomb down the A12 to Ipswich and see if we could blag our way onto a train.

Fortunately we were early enough that they agreed to squeeze us on the next train and we had a nice straight forward run back to London, before cycling back up to Epsom. Job done. I feel bad about bailing on the return leg, but this close to TCR, there’s just no point running the risk of injury or long term damage.

So there we have it. Kit finalised. Training complete. Two weeks to go. Two weeks. Two.

I’ll try to get a kit post out before the start, but work’s pretty hectic while I clear the decks before disappearing for a couple of weeks and much of my free time is being eaten by panicking about the TCR… more so if I have to create a second route to the possible ’emergency’ end point…

]]>https://brbrn.com/2016/07/18/the-final-countdown/feed/02016-07-17 05.11.34brbrn2016-07-14 22.01.42.jpg2016-07-16 16.46.45sleeping bag.pngTo the edge and backhttps://brbrn.com/2016/05/23/to-the-edge-and-back/
https://brbrn.com/2016/05/23/to-the-edge-and-back/#respondMon, 23 May 2016 16:27:49 +0000http://brbrn.wordpress.com/?p=705Thanks to the weather, my inherent laziness and many other weak excuses, I’m yet to do any multi-day light weight tours and I figure the coming bank holiday presents my final opportunity to do so before the Transcon.

I’ve decided, somewhat loosely, on heading down to Land’s End and back. Why Land’s End? Why not… From my base in Epsom, it’s the furthest point in England I can realistically reach and get back from over the space of the three days.Perhaps cycling up to John O’Groats and taking a plane/train back would be more impressive, but I like the poetry of circular routes more than point to point. Either way, I quite like the idea of riding to the edge of England.

A mini tour is the perfect opportunity to test my TCR kit (minus the parts yet to arrive…) in field conditions and get some insight on what might need tweaking ahead of July the 30th. But how realistic to make this trip? I’m hoping to nail around 400km per day in the main event, but want some flexibility over the coming weekend… while at the same time, knowing a part of me will want to try to keep riding until I fall off the bike too exhausted to pedal. I’ve settled on about 1,000km as a compromise – it’s a manageable daily distance if I keep myself in check, but equally not an insurmountable challenge to get home if I go off the rails and ride straight to Land’s End without breaks and need some time to recover.

There’s also the question of climbing… in my somewhat anal quest to quantify the race, I’ve worked out the climbing ratios of each segment of my route. Switzerland/Italy and Bosnia/Montenegro/Kosovo are going to hurt, with absurd amounts of climbing over very short distances. How much climbing should I throw into my tour to test my conditioning… do the South West’s bumps really compare to Alpine climbing? There are enough lumps en-route to Land’s End that I hardly have to try to bulk up the climbing, but there are options to lay it on really thick. My draft route out is absurdly lumpy, with an easier return… this might change as the date gets closer and nerves outweigh optimism.

Next – to bivy or not to bivy? On the one hand, it’s finally warming up and a couple of nights under the stars will be good practice (and based on my last experience I’ve invested in an emergency foil blanket). On the other hand, Travelodges (other discount chains are available) offer an opportunity to get properly cleaned up and a better night’s rest… and there’s no point suffering for the sake of suffering. I’m pretty keen to head down the bivy route, but think I’ll need to make a point of having my route regularly pass near as many budget chains as possible so the option is there.

There’s also the question of missing kit – so far my dynamo wheel is yet to arrive and my gearing is limited to 11-28 (I’ve just put a new chain on, so my inner miser won’t let me switch it out for the weekend and I was hoping not to have to pick up the medium cage derailleur until July). I’m not too worried about the gearing to be honest – train hard, race easy – but not being able to set up my dynamo system means no testing the lighting or charging. This is the area that seems to go wrong for most people and I can see myself careening down a similar path. That said, I do have the brick-like battery of endless power and long-lasting lights, so perhaps it’s just as well that they’re being tested ahead of potentially being called into service at the last minute.

I guess the most important part is to make sure it’s fun. My training keeps going off the boil when I reduce the fun in the name of training, so I’ve thrown in some of the best sights I could sensibly stitch together and plenty of coast lines. My TCR route will be endlessly dull in the name of speed and efficiency, so there’s plenty of time to be bored this summer (I jest… I think).

I’ll finish planning during the week, but I wanted a commitment in writing before I talk myself out of it. I’ve already found myself looking into Everesting and other fun, but ultimately not beneficial ways to spend the long weekend, so this seems the only way to force some self-control. I may even see if I can rope in anyone else to join me for the out or return leg as a little extra incentive… preferably someone taller, wider and significantly faster than me who doesn’t mind sitting on the front for hours on end…